Turnabout Outbreak
by PengyChan
Summary: Sequel to Turnabout to the Past. Two international spies are investigating a nanobiology company's shady side business. Meanwhile, in LA, Blackquill finds himself prosecuting a very odd murder that will cause him to cross paths with the Phantom once again.
1. Prologue

_A/N: so in the end I couldn't resist and ended up deciding to give this a try. I should have known from the start I would give in. :P_  
_This fic is a sequel set a couple of years after the end of _Turnabout to the Past._ If you haven't read that one, chances are that plenty of things in this fic won't make any sense to you. You're still on time to run away._

_This is a rather short prologue; the next chapters will be longer, I promise._  
_Also, watch out: there is a not-so-implied threat of rape in this part._

* * *

"... Found her while she tried to sneak in..."

"... There was someone with her, but I couldn't..."

The woman – who's had many names, but who sometimes still likes to refer to herself as the Yatagarasu for old times' sake – can feel an amused smirk spreading on her face. Still, she doesn't let her mirth show in any other way: she keeps quiet and listens the two men talking out of the door of the small, damp room she's into. It's kind of cold in there, but there isn't much she can do about that; not with her hands tied above her head and her ankles tied together. With rope. She doesn't exactly love being bound in general, but she'd take handcuffs over rope any day of the week: metal never bites into your skin quite the way rope does. Ah well. It's not going to be for long anyway.

The door opens, and she looks up to see two men walking in. One is the man who captured her – a tall man with black hair and a rather awful burn scar on the right side of his face – and another with almost no hair and a prominent belly. It's still clear, however, that he used to be a muscular guy back in the day. She supposes he's this place's own version of a Chief of Security.

"Well, well," the bald man says, walking up to her and smiling. Both his front teeth seem to be made of gold. "So this is the bird you caught, isn't it, Doug?"

The scarred man nods. "Yes, sir," he says in a somewhat raspy voice. "As I said, she and an accomplice were trying to sneak in the main room. Her partner managed to get away, but he can't have gone far. The security is looking for him," he adds, and the bald guy nods at him before turning back to their captive – to her.

She grins at them. "You may find him harder to get your hands on than you expect," she says. "You're looking for a ghost."

The bald one snorts. "If he's as much of a challenge as you were, he'll be in our hands soon enough. Doug here caught you with no need of backup," he says, and the scarred guy grunts in agreement.

"Pfffft...!"

The men exchange a perplexed glance when she suddenly starts laughing so hard that she'd lean forward wasn't it for the fact her arms are tied well above her head. Not that confusion lasts for long: Baldie scowls in anger, and gives the scarred man a sharp nod. The man nods back and raises his arm, and the next moment a violent backhand slap causes her head to whip on one side, cutting off her laughter. It doesn't keep her from grinning, however, even as her cheek stings and some blood wells up from her lower lip.

"My partner has been wanting to do that for a while, I bet. I think he'll kill you last. Lighten up a bit," she says, turning to smirk at the scarred one. He grunts and says nothing.

"I think you fail to grasp the situation you're in," Baldie snorts. "It's over for you. And to think we were expecting some high profile spy, if any. I'm almost insulted to see they sent in such an amateur."

The woman grins. "Or maybe you're just too smart even for a high profile spy."

This time, the man laughs. "Why, are you trying to dig your way out of this with feminine wiles now?"

She shrugs as much as her bounds allow her. "You can't blame a girl for trying."

"_Pah_. You're not much better at it than you are as a spy," is the reply. The bald guy gestures for the scarred one to step back, and comes to stand right before her. He definitely smells like someone likely to drink himself in an early grave... if given the time. "Who sent you?"

"Hey, give me some credit. I got in far enough to know Ms. Thrax was behind the tests in Reijam. Using humans. I mean, seriously? What happened to guinea pigs?" the woman asks, trying to distract him from his own question. It seems to work, and Baldie laughs again. It's not an especially pleasant laughter, but at least he's not entirely devoid of sense of humor. That's something she can appreciate. Sort of.

"You know nothing, woman," the man spits when his laughter dies down. "Ms. Thrax is nothing but a pawn. She has no true control over anything. But thanks for letting us know she's compromised: YggdraCorp will replace her swiftly."

The woman looks back at him, eyes widening in surprise. "YggdraCorp? The Nanobiology company?"

The man grins and reaches to cup her chin. "That's nothing you should concern your pretty head with. All that you should concern yourself with is whether or not I'll feel generous enough to give you a quick death. Who knows," he adds, brushing his thumb across her cheek with a grin wide enough to show several golden teeth, "perhaps I'll be merciful if you're nice enough now. Tell me who sent you, and I'll even be gentle."

It takes her some effort not to laugh in his face, but somehow she manages to hold back. Well, almost: there is no hiding the smirk spreading across her face as his hand reaches for her shirt. "Looks like my _feminine wiles_ aren't that bad after all. But I'm afraid you won't be getting any tonight. Or ever again, for the matter."

The man snorts, a hand reaching to undo the first button of her shirt. "Oh? And who's to stop-" he begins, only to trail off with a sudden, gargling noise. He stays still for an instant, eyes widening, then he slowly lifts his hand to his neck. The woman lowers her gaze to see the tip of a blade poking out of his throat, covered with blood. She looks back up, and their eyes meet. The man's are still wide with shock, and no words are leaving his open mouth – only a low gurgling noise and dark, red blood.

She smiles. "The Phantom," is all she says. And then the blade is pulled out of the man's neck and he crumples on the floor without another noise, lying still in a widening pool of blood. The woman stares down at him for another moment before smiling again – a colder smile than before. She looks up to see the scarred man standing before her, a blood-covered knife still in his hand.

"One less pig in the world. You heard that happened to the last female spy he got his hands on, didn't you?"

The man nods and approaches, using the same knife to cut her free of her bounds. "I heard of it, yes. I've killed better people," he says, his voice flat. "If anything, he gave us information to work on before he died."

"Just as planned. Next time we have to pull this off _I_ want to be the one to catch _you_. Try playing the damsel in distress for once. But hey, nice mask," the woman says as he finishes freeing her from the rope. She steps past the corpse and allows herself a moment to rub her wrists. "I'm impressed by the performance. Seriously. You could only see what the guy was like for a short time before you took his place."

The Phantom, who's still wearing the scarred man's mask and pulling out a gun to put a muffler on it, lets out a hum. "He was easy. All I had to do was slouch, point and grunt. Universal goon language, it appears."

"And hit me when told to," she says, reaching up to touch her split lip. She smirks. "How long have you wanted to do it?"

He replies without even looking at her, reaching into the bulletproof jacket he's wearing. He pulls out a gun and hands it to her. "How long have we been working together?"

"Roughly two years."

"There's your answer."

"Not the smartest thing to tell me after giving me a gun."

He ignores her quip. "He spoke of one YggdraCorp. I assume it isn't known for any kind of illicit activity, because I never heard of it before. Nanobiology, you said?"

A nod. "Yes. I heard of it, but as you said it was never involved in anything odd. Well, until now. We must report as soon as possible. If he wasn't lying, this is _huge_. YggdraCorp is a leading company in its field."

"We'll report as soon as we're out. There is only a guard outside this door. Did you neutralize the cameras before I _caught_ you?"

"Obviously. They're showing old pieces of recorded footage to whoever is in the monitor room. You could dance naked right in front of each camera and no one would know. Why don't you try?" she adds with a grin.

He snorts. "I'll pass," is all he says before heading to the door. He opens it and calls out, this time with the same voice as the man whose face he's still wearing. "Hey, Harv. Come here a moment. Prisoner's being a stubborn bitch."

The woman doesn't see what happens next – she cannot see outside at all from her position – but then again the Phantom is quick and efficient and she doesn't think she's missing much: after a few seconds to let this Harv come closer, the he lifts the gun almost casually and shoots. The mufflers he picked _are_ pretty damn good, she must give him that: the sound of the body dropping is louder than the shot itself.

"All clear," the Phantom calls out, putting the gun away. "I'm relatively safe as long as I'm wearing this mask; no one has any reason to come here to check for a while. I have a level 2 security card. I'll disable the alarm on the northern side; there are almost no guards on that side, since I sent most of them out looking for _me_. Use that route to get out. If anything goes wrong-"

"Nothing will," the woman cuts him off. "And if it does, the gun will be enough to fix it. Meeting point?"

"Same as previously established. I don't show up within a hour-"

"I'll assume you've been caught and leave, yes. But you won't."

"Not if I have a say in the matter, no."

She grins. "Good. I doubt any other partner I may get would be as much fun to make fun of," she says. "So come back. Possibly in one piece."

"Hmpf. Try not to get caught for real," the Phantom snorts, and with that he's off, stepping past the dead body of the guard he shot only minutes ago.

The woman – who's had many names and will have even more, but who sometimes still refers to herself as the Yatagarasu because, after all, stealing the truth is what she _does_ – watches him go until he turns the corner, then she turns to head the other way, gun ready to fire should she have a need to. She's not worried for herself nor for the Phantom, as both of them are capable enough to make it out, but she still loves the excitement that comes from the challenge: the resulting rush of adrenaline is the single greatest thing about being a spy, as far as she's concerned.

Pity that the Phantom doesn't seem to agree, but then again he hardly gets excited over anything at all.


	2. Odd Murders

"Prosecutor Blackquill, sir?"

Simon Blackquill looks up from the form he's filling – after-trial paperwork is by far what he likes the least in his work, but there seems to be no escaping it – to see Detective Gumshoe standing in the doorway with a folder until his arm. He looks all the world like a beaten dog... and he has a good reason to be.

"You were supposed to be here a hour ago," Blackquill points out, gesturing for him to come inside. "I hope you have a good explanation this time."

"It's... it's about my wife, sir."

Blackquill holds back a sigh. That's not the first time he hears something along those lines: Gumshoe's wife seems to have the remarkable talent to attract trouble like a magnet. He can't even count how many times something happened to her in the two and something years he and Gumshoe have worked together – but somehow she always seems to come out of all of it with a smile, at least according to Gumshoe; if true, that's a trait he can admire. It reminds him of Athena, in a way.

"I see. I hope it was nothing serious," he says, and he blinks when Gumshoe's shoulders drop even more.

"She... she was accused of murder, sir. In fact, you're supposed to... well, these are the documents for... for the prosecution, sir," he says, putting the folder on his desk. Blackquill stares up at him for several moments.

"Are you telling me that I'm to prosecute your wife for murder?" he asks quietly.

Gumshoe's hands ball into fists. "She didn't do it, pal! I mean, Prosecutor Blackquill! She's innocent! There was a mistake!" he exclaims, and he sounds truly desperate to convince him. Not that convincing him is needed: it's the _court_ he needs to convince.

Blackquill reaches to take the folder. "If there was indeed a mistake-"

"There _was_! Maggey would never-"

"_Silence_. Interrupt me once again, Detective, and your wife will have to face widowhood along with murder charges," Blackquill cuts him off, causing him to wince and shut his mouth. "As I was saying, if indeed there is a mistake, then the trial will uncover the truth. I trust she already chose her defense attorney?"

Gumshoe nods, and this time a smile makes it to his face. "Oh, sure! Mr. Wright helped her out of some sticky situations already. He's going to be her lawyer. Again."

That causes Blackquill to smirk. It's been a while since last time he and Wright crossed their blades; he's been wanting to do it again for a while, actually. What better chance than this? "Very well, then. If your wife is indeed innocent, I'm certain the trial will reveal as much. If you believe in her and her defense, then you shouldn't worry. Cease your moping."

The detective nods and smiles again. "I... sure I believe in her, pal. I mean, sir. She wouldn't hurt a fly!"

Blackquill hums and opens the folder to look at the evidence list. It isn't very long, as apparently the circumstances in which the murder seems to have occurred is in itself the most damning evidence. "Do tell, who'll assist Wright as the defense?"

"Miss Cykes said she'd do it. Justice has a trial of his own the same day. I think the Wright kid will be helping him out for that one."

"Hmph. I hope for his sake she won't decide to make evidence disappear again."

Gumshoe chuckles. "Well... it was just an accident, sir. She made it appear again after a few tries."

"Still a waste of time we could have done without. It makes you wonder how come she wasn't held in contempt of the court," Blackquill mutters, but he leaves it at that. Holding anything at all against Trucy Wright is surprisingly difficult.

"I think Mr. Wright's first assistant was, once. Mr. Edgeworth's life was at stake and she refused to back off."

"Maya Fey? Somehow I'm not surprised," Blackquill comments, still looking through the evidence. He doesn't know her very well, having met her only a few times... but one of those times she did him and Athena the greatest favor either of them could possibly ask for. They had wanted, needed to speak with _her_ once again, and Maya Fey had made it possible. Despite the tears running down her face, the smile Athena wore that day was the brightest he had ever seen on her until then.

And when Maya Fey had accepted to do the same for Aura, to let his sister see _her_ again, Blackquill had known that nothing he could possibly do in his life would be enough to repay the spirit medium for that gift.

"Oh, and I almost forgot," Gumshoe is saying, in a much better mood than before. "Miss Cykes says you should go with them for some noodles after the trial is over, since she's sure they'll clear Maggey's name. She says it will be on Mr. Wright. Not sure Mr. Wright knows that yet, though."

Blackquill allows himself to smile. "I can't see why not. I hope you and your wife will be able to join. Now, I want you to go back to the crime scene and keep looking for anything that may be relevant. And remember," he adds, looking back up at Gumshoe. "I expect you to treat this like you'd treat any other case. If your wife is innocent, the truth _will_ come out. You have my word on it. Don't do anything foolish. Don't compromise yourself for nothing," he warns. "I'll have no mercy on you if you do."

Gumshoe straightens himself and nods. "Yes, sir! It'll be the most thorough investigation you'll ever see!"

_In justice we trust!_

The sudden memory causes Blackquill to freeze for a moment, then he clenches his jaw and looks away. It doesn't happen often anymore, but there are still times when he almost expects to hear that motto, that voice again; there are times when he catches himself almost calling for Detective Fulbright rather than Gumshoe.

This is ridiculous, of course: Fulbright is dead, and it was never _him_ he worked with. It was the Phantom, and the Phantom – Robert LaRoche, he tells himself, that was his _name_ and he will remember it until the day he draws his last breath – is gone from this world as well, executed for his crimes.

Blackquill will never hear that voice or those words again, he knows as much... but it's taking his mind an aggravatingly long time to catch up with the fact. "Then go already," he snaps at Gumshoe, and he doesn't even watch him leave: he simply turns his attention back to the evidence list, trying to figure out how on Earth could Gumshoe's wife get herself in such trouble to begin with.

* * *

"Are we there yet?"

"No."

"Are we there yet?"

"No."

"Are we there yet?"

"No."

"Are we there yet?"

The Phantom rolls his eyes, but doesn't turn his gaze away from the plane's window. Not that there is much to see aside from the plane's wing lights and, occasionally, some city's lights down below. "Are you going to keep this up for much longer?" he asks with the same flat tone he's used until now.

The woman beside him shrugs, absentmindedly running a hand through short auburn hair. He only asked her one time how he should call her between assignments or whenever there was no need to use someone else's name, and that one time she had called herself 'Yatagarasu' before adding something about 'one stubborn young woman who may not agree'. He asked no more questions, and in time that's how he's come to think of her – the Yatagarasu.

"As long as it takes to get a reaction out of you," she says.

"Saying 'no' is a reaction."

"You're no fun. The worst possible company on long flights, actually."

"People are supposed to _sleep_ through night flights."

"You're awake."

"Thanks to you."

"As if. You never sleep during flights."

"I _wonder _why."

"Aw, you know you love it. You wouldn't have married me otherwise," the Yatagarasu says, her voice suddenly sickly sweet. He turns to glance at her, and he's not at all surprised to see she's grinning widely, barely holding back from laughing... as she _did_ laugh when they were told they were to pose as a married couple for their return to the States. It's not the first time they need to take on the role of the married couple, but she still seems to find the thought hilarious. He _doesn't_, which seems to add to her amusement.

"If you're going to keep us both awake, we may as well get something to drink," he mutters, and reaches to press the button to call for a flight attendant. He'd appreciate some cognac, truth to be told, but the man whose skin he's wearing is more of a wine person, so wine it will be.

She grins again. "Sounds good. Champagne for me, darling," she says, blowing a kiss at him before bringing a hand up to her mouth to muffle her snicker. He has to wonder, not for the first time, how old she exactly _is_. That's something he never bothered to ask, and nothing he plans on asking at all – even though he knows for a fact that she must be at least forty. She doesn't act like it, that's for certain.

"Hello. Did you call for assistance?" a flight attendant asks, coming to stand next to the seat the Yatagarasu is on. She gives her a wide smile.

"Oh, yes. We would like some red wine and champagne, the best you have. The company he works for is covering all expenses, so we should take advantage of it. Isn't that right, sweetpea?" she chirps at him. He can tell her face must be hurting with the strain it's taking her to keep a straight face. He has to admit that 'the company he works for' is quite an interesting way to refer to the government of United States.

The Phantom pastes an adoring smile on his borrowed face – because the man whose skin he's wearing absolutely adores his vapid little wife – and nods. "Of course, schnookums," he says, because he knows that's what the man he's impersonating would say. The man he's impersonating is also an utter imbecile, but that's nothing he can allow himself to change.

Sometimes he wonders if there will ever be one time before the end of his life – which, statistically speaking, isn't likely to be very long in his line of work – when he'll be allowed to impersonate a normal, functional human being with no ridiculous quirks and catchphrases. Someday, maybe. But not today.

"Pffffft…!"

The flight attendant blinks, clearly taken aback by the uproarious laughter that leaves his 'wife'. He doesn't bat an eye, however: he's far too used to those fits of laughter. He's been the receiving end of them more times than he cares to count in the past couple of years, often at the most inopportune moments.

He gives the flight attendant an apologetic smile. "We had a few drinks at the airport already. To pass time as we waited, you see," he says. It's not true, of course, but what else is he supposed to come up with to explain the fact his 'wife' is currently howling with laughter?

Thankfully, it seems to work: the flight attendant asks no more questions and just nods dutifully before she's off to get them the drinks they asked for. The Phantom sighs and gives a sheepish smile to a couple of people who are glaring at them from their seats – people who don't appreciate being awakened by uproarious laughter, he assumes – before turning back to the woman he has the misfortune to have as a partner. Thankfully, her laughter has died down to a snicker now.

"Do you have any more ideas to draw everyone's attention on us?" he asks. The plane is far from crowded and no one is sitting close enough to them to hear what they're talking about – but everyone in the plane can hear her laughter just fine and clearly don't appreciate it.

She frowns as though in deep thought. "We could set some snakes loose on the plane."

"Do you happen to have a live snake hidden somewhere on your person?"

She grins. "Do you?"

He gives her a blank gaze. "I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that."

"Another way to be sure we get everyone's attention would be-"

"Forget I even asked," he cuts her off. She grins at him.

"Want me to stop?" she asks, shooting a glance past him and to the window.

The Phantom sighs. "I take it you want the window seat."

"That would be nice. See, you're getting better. Get up, _honey_," she adds, mockingly blowing him a kiss. The Phantom chooses to ignore her and just stands, allowing her to take the window seat and sitting down in her place. There is nothing interesting to see outside, but even if there was... well, he doubts the most breathtaking sight in the world would be worth a minute of the annoyance she can cause him.

Besides, it's not like any _sight_ the world many offer can actually take _his_ breath away after all.

_Blackquill_.

The thought is like a sudden, sharp stab through his chest. He's quick to shut out the thought, of course, because thinking about Simon Blackquill will do him no good. He left him behind along with the identity he struggled so hard to find two years ago, and he won't allow himself to linger on the thought. What he has left of his identity is a self, a _core_ he's determined to never lose again; what he has left of Blackquill is the knowledge he's safe and free, that he believes him gone and that he's picked his life back up and moved on.

That is enough; it _must_ be enough. There is no point in dwelling in it: he's history to Blackquill, and Blackquill must be history to him as well. Their paths are never to cross again.

"Are we there yet?" Her voice snaps him from his thoughts and, for once, he's almost thankful. Almost.

"Didn't you say you'd stop if I gave you the window seat?" he mutters.

"I said I'd stop drawing other passengers' attention on us, _schnookums_. Not that I'd stop talking."

The Phantom sighs, reaching up to rub his eyes. He's wearing no gloves, the scar on the back of his right hand hidden by a patch of fake skin. "I'm not paid enough for this."

"Well, we're not paid _at all_. Getting to stay alive is our payment."

"I maintain my point," he says before smiling at the flight attendant who's just now coming back with the drinks they asked for. The Yatagarasu doesn't press the point, thankfully, and there are few minutes of welcomed silence as they both just take a few swigs of their drinks. The Phantom would still prefer cognac – sometimes the mere fact he actually _has_ likes and dislikes that belong to no one else whose face he's worn still stuns him – but the wine is passable, too.

"Here. Do your homework."

The Phantom blinks when a tablet is put on his knees. "What is that?"

"The headquarters forwarded us some information on YggdraCorp. Nothing much yet, but I figure you'd like to get a general idea of what it's about before we're off to find out what's going on with it."

He raises an eyebrow. "What makes you think we'll get the assignment?"

"Why shouldn't we? We already got this far. They may as well let us get to the bottom of this."

"Whatever _this_ is supposed to be," the Phantom says, picking up the tablet and giving a quick look at the screen. There is some information on the kind of work the company does, its known connections and achievements. "The deeper we go, the less we know what this _is_ about."

She doesn't try to argue that point, which isn't surprising: all he's doing is stating a fact.

At first they had a dead politician in the Republic of Reijam. Natural death, apparently: he was found in his locked bedroom without a single wound on his body... as far it was possible to tell. The body was at an advanced stage of decay, which had made the autopsy quite difficult. But nothing that could resemble a wound had been found, and no poison of any kind was detected by any of the tests performed. It could have probably been written off as heart failure – something the Phantom considers medical speak for 'we have no clue what the hell even happened' – hadn't it been for the tiny, insignificant detail that the man had been alive and well only three days before his body was found.

And there was simply_no way _for a body to decay that much in a matter of three days.

The Phantom has no idea why the government of the United States would be interested in the matter – such information is on a need-to-know basis, and to do his job he certainly doesn't need to know – but there has to be something, since both him and the Yatagarasu were sent to infiltrate and gather information right away.

The first hypothesis was that of a body double, someone who went around posing as the deceased for at least three weeks prior to the body's discovery. The Yatagarasu had found it hilarious, and the irony _they_ were the ones chosen to investigate the possibility hadn't escaped the Phantom.

However, it hadn't taken them long to realize it wasn't the case. The man had cut his hand with a letter opener only a few days before the body was found – another detail _she_ had found especially hilarious and that had made the back of his right hand itch – and DNA analysis showed without a trace of doubt that the blood belonged to the deceased. The thought it may be fabricated evidence did cross their mind, but further analysis shot down that theory as well: the blood had been fresh and in no way preserved.

While they failed to find out how a such thing was possible, they found... something among the man's files that caught their eye: ties to several clinics, ties he had done his utmost to keep hidden. It was a lead, they supposed, the _only_ lead, and after reporting about their discovery they were sent to infiltrate in one clinic each. The Yatagarasu was disappointed by the decision, claiming she was curious to see him dressed up as a nurse – and was later disappointed to find out he was to pose as a security guard; one less excuse for her to laugh for no good reason – but there wasn't much she could do about it.

She was the first one to find something, a few days afterward, and things from there had been... hectic. What looked like cases of medical malpractice brushed under the rug by the clinics' management had started to look like something far more sinister.

"They've been experimenting on their patients," the Phantom had finally muttered as the looked through the e-mail of one of the clinics' lead doctors, one Anne Thrax. He could tell, from the look the Yatagarasu gave him, that he was speaking aloud what they had both been thinking. "Deliberately. The management must know; they wouldn't have covered this much without questions otherwise."

"Experimenting _what_, though?"

"Unless you're hoping to dream the answer tonight, that's what we have to work on next."

"Assuming _they_ let us keep going. They may decide this is nothing of interest for them."

"Nothing of interest? Experiments on humans in clinics with dubious ties to a politician who recently died in unexplained circumstances and whose death we were sent to look into?"

"... Fair point. Exciting, isn't it?"

He didn't precisely find any of it exciting – it was his _work_, nothing more and nothing less – so he hadn't felt much of anything when they were told to continue with their work there. Some more investigation had led them to find out there were _contacts_ between the clinics and what was supposed to be medical center for homeless people... at least on paper. "Heavy security for a medical center for homeless people, don't you think?" the Yatagarasu had said as they observed the outline of the building they obtained by hacking into one of the clinics' network. The building made him think of something closer to a fort, with cameras and likely guards around the perimeter.

He had nodded. "There is certainly more to it than they're letting by. And yet we have seen several people being brought there."

"But none of them leaving. Bet you a wig and spirit gum that the number of the homeless in the area has been going down since when the place opened."

"More experiments, then. They must have figured it would be less risky this way. The homeless come and go; few would notice, and even less would look for them. Besides, the police here must have been bribed to turn in a blind eye," he had added. It wasn't hard to imagine how, considering that a politician had been involved somehow. Only that now he was dead in unclear circumstances. "Let's report back."

They did report, and neither was too surprised by the order that followed: infiltrate the place, find out who or what was behind it all, and _leave_.

_That place is of no big importance_, the message they received read. _Find out who the puppeteer is and leave. Let someone else deal with the pawns. We want you back in the States as soon as you have that information_.

Which is exactly what they did, and now they're on their way back to the States knowing that this YggdraCorp is behind it... whatever _it_ is. The Phantom supposes the US government must know or suspect what the experiments may be about, which would explain why he and the Yatagarasu were told to find out who was behind the business and nothing else.

But all he and the Yatagarasu have right now is a dead politician, unclear circumstances and a couple of clinics that have a thing for using humans as lab rats. They can't even tell _how_ it all fits together, or if the politician's unexplained death and this odd side business of his are indeed connected.

Still...

_If he wasn't lying, this is _huge_. YggdraCorp is a leading company in its field_.

The Phantom looks back down at the tablet the Yatagarasu gave him. He supposes that knowing at least something about this YggraCorp will help: after all, as she pointed out, they _are_ rather likely to get the assignment of infiltrating it. He may as well start to learn something about it now.

_Based in Los Angeles, California, Yggdra Corp is one of the world's leading nanobiology comp-_

… Wait, what?

"Something wrong, _sweetie_?"

The Phantom turns to glare at the Yatagarasu – who, of course, is looking at him with an amused smirk... but also somewhat intently. Inwardly cursing himself for letting anything show, the Phantom turns away from her to stare down at the tablet once more. "Nothing, _cupcake_," he mutters as a response, finishing his glass of wine before turning his attention back to the tablet's screen. He knows she can tell exactly _what_ is wrong, but he's not going to admit it. As long as he doesn't say anything about it, she can only assume.

_Based in Los Angeles, California._

Of course, it couldn't be some place on the other side of the world. Oh no. It just _had_ to be good old L.A.

_Blackquill is there. I can't go back there. I _can't.

But he must if so _they_ want. If they give them the assignment, as they likely _will_, he'll have to go back to Los Angeles whether he wants it or not. There would be no way for him to argue against the decision without someone wondering about the reason why... and he cannot allow himself to let the people who _own_ him that he has any weakness. Not when the risk is that of being put down like a dog that can no longer walk and perform the tricks it was trained for.

"Hey, why the long face?" the Yatagarasu laughs. "Lighten up. Los Angeles is a big place. The odds of running into your ex are pretty low," she says, then she pauses and tilts her head on one side. "Does that make you feel better or worse?" she inquires. The Phantom chooses to entirely ignore the way she just referred to Blackquill. That's just about the last thing he wants to start arguing about.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he says flatly, gaze fixed on the screen. "It doesn't make me feel anything. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to read about this YggdraCorp. _You_ said I should, didn't you?"

"Fine, fine. No need to get pissy," she says. The unnerving grin is still on her lips, but at least she's turning to the window in silence. The Phantom waits for a few moments, but she doesn't speak again. Good.

He goes back to read about YggdraCorp, willing himself to chase away the sense of dread that pervaded him for a moment when he read exactly where the company is based. The Yatagarasu may be insufferable most of the time, but she's right on at least one thing: Los Angeles is a large city, and the chances of meeting Blackquill are ridiculously slim. Now that he thinks about it logically, he has to wonder what made him think it was even a real possibility.

What are the _odds_?

* * *

"... That is all. The court is adjourn- is Detective Gumshoe trying to _smother_ the defendant?"

Athena smiles up at the judge. "I think that's just a hug, Your Honor. A, uh... tight hug," she adds when she notices that Maggey is a little blue in the face even though she's still smiling. Detective Gumshoe sure is relieved, but then again he has all reasons to: even though they managed to prove Maggey's innocence, there were a couple of close calls they could have done without.

She turns away from the scene and looks over at the prosecutor's bench. She's about to call out for Simon to join them for a nice bowl of noodles, but she pauses when she notices he's frowning down at a slip of paper. It's no surprise that he's not entirely satisfied: they got Maggey off the hook, but the real culprit's identity still evades them. After a moment's hesitation, Athena walks away from the defense's bench – Mr. Wright is finally getting Detective Gumshoe to let go of Maggey so that she can _breathe, _and apparently doesn't need her help – and approaches him. "Hey, Simon. Is something wrong?" she asks.

Simon nods at her and puts down the slip of paper he's been looking at – the autopsy report. "Yes. Something doesn't add up with the autopsy report," he replies. Athena can guess exactly what he's talking about.

The victim, one Stan Doff, was found dead in his office on Monday morning; according to the autopsy he had been killed with a blow on the head, and he had been dead the whole weekend – which placed his time of death on Friday night. And Maggey, who worked as a receptionist for him, had been the last person to leave the offices that day... and to see him alive. That had been enough to put her on top of the suspects list, especially since no one else had the keys aside for herself and the victim.

Except that she and Mr. Wright had been able to find proof that the victim was alive on Sunday afternoon: he had taken some money from an ATM machine, and the security footage showed clearly it had been him there, alive and well; the money he took was still in his wallet. The time of death having been moved forward, there was nothing to uphold the claim Maggey had done it and she was found not guilty. But Simon is right: there is _still_ the problem with the autopsy report, which states clearly the victim had been dead for at least two full days before being found. If he was alive on Sunday afternoon, that's simply impossible.

"Maybe there was a mistake?" Athena suggests halfheartedly. It would be a _big_ mistake to make, though.

"It seems the only explanation," Simon says, but he doesn't look convinced, either. "Yet... I have seen the body. I'll spare you the details, but that man _can't_ have been dead for one night only."

Athena frowns. "But we know he was alive on Sunday, so... maybe the body was tampered with somehow?"

"Perhaps. It escapes me _how_ that could be possible, but I'm hardly an expert. I'll have to talk with your friend in the forensics team about this. Further investigation is in order; we have yet to find the murderer, after all."

"Oh, sure! I bet Ema would be glad to help. And you can count on me as well!"

Blackquill chuckles. "If Gumshoe keeps refusing to break away from his wife, I may indeed find myself in need of another partner for my investigation," he says, finally putting the autopsy report away. "But this can wait until later, I suppose. If I'm not mistaken, Detective Gumshoe said something about noodles."

Athena grins. "Sure! You've got to come with us. Apollo will be there, too. He already won his trial," she adds, then she lets her smile fade and draws in a deep breath. "Actually, after that I was thinking of... I'd like to pay a visit. It's... two years today, isn't it?" she says, and Simon's small smile fades as well.

"Yes. I'm aware of it," he says quietly, not looking at her. He doesn't like talking about LaRoche's execution any more than she does; she can tell his death still pains him. "I take it you mean to pay your respects?"

She nods. "Yes," is all she says. She feels like she should. No one aside from herself and Simon _would_, and what is the point in having a grave – with a _name_ on it, just like he wanted – if no one ever visits it?

Simon nods. "I suppose it's only fitting that I come as well," is all he says. She can tell it's all he wishes to say at the moment, so she's quick to turn the conversation back to the salty noodles they're about to have.

* * *

"... when we made it here the spy was gone, and both Harv and Paul were dead. See, Paul was right there, in a pool of blood. Christ, I'm not getting the mental image out of my brain as long as I live."

The man – who's tall and slim, with black hair barely shot through with gray and eyes so dark irises and pupils are hard to tell apart – hums, staring at the bloodstain still on the floor. "How was he exactly killed?"

"Stabbed through the neck from behind, Mr... huh..."

"Outis," the man supplies, giving him a friendly smile. "That's how I go by these days. Such I am called by mother, father, and by all my comrades," he proclaims somewhat dramatically. The guard just gapes at him, and he gives a disappointed sigh. "I take it Homer's Odyssey wasn't part of your education. Pity."

"I, uh... no. Sorry, sir."

He chuckles. "Now, now. No need to apologize. I'm certain there are plenty of things you know that I ignore. To each their own," he says jovially, then he turns back to the blood stain. "What of the other guard?"

"The other- oh. Right. Harv was shot. In the head, just once. Sir," the guard adds quickly. A lot of the guards there keep adding 'sir' like it's an afterthought, but Outis isn't too surprised: it must be odd for them to be instructed to talk about what happened to a complete stranger, someone they never before met or heard of.

But then again, if a simple guard _did_ hear of him it would mean he's not so good at his job. And he _is_ good, which is why he was hired. This is the work of spies, after all – and if you need a thief to catch a thief, what do you need to catch a spy? "I was told the spy who was captured and held here had an accomplice. One who escaped capture," Outis says, his voice calm. He brings a cigarette up to his lips and inhales.

He went through most of his life thinking that smoking was quite the ugly habit, but he picked it up after the organization he worked for was almost entirely dissolved thanks to a high profile spy being caught and spilling the beans. A pity, especially since he had always thought of _that_ one as the best he ever trained. He was almost sorry when he was executed in the States: having _made_ him the spy he was, Outis would have liked to be the one to put him down – like you'd put down a once-prized racing horse with a broken leg.

Ah well. Things don't always go the way they should, as the blood stain before him proves.

"Yes, sir. Doug – the guard who caught the spy, I mean – said as much. He said that her accomplice fled, and send some of us to look for him while he brought the spy here and went to call for Paul to- sir?" the guard calls out, clearly taken aback, when the man chuckles.

"Tell me," he says, finally turning to face the guard. "Where is this Doug? I'd like to have a word with him."

The guard shakes his head. "That won't be possible, sir. I was getting there – he died as well. We started a search when we realized he was missing. We found him in his apartment. He was stabbed through the heart."

The man isn't at all surprised to hear that. "If you want my two cents on the matter, this _Doug_ was already dead by the time the spy was caught."

"What? But it was him to catch her!"

"Wrong," Outis says, taking one last drag of his cigarette before putting it out against the wall and putting the butt in his pocket. He's not going to leave any of his DNA in a place that will be soon swarming with Interpol agents. "Someone else took his place that day; the spy's accomplice. Oh, and she was never _caught_ to begin with. Her accomplice posed as this Doug and pretended to have caught her trying to sneak in."

"But... why?"

"To gather information. What else?" Outis says, and gives another chuckle at the man's stunned expression. "They expected someone in charge would want to question her, and so it happened. They were both in this room, alone with your chief. It takes little for a decent spy to get information out of a man who thinks he's on top of the game. By killing him, they made sure we wouldn't know _what_ he told them."

The guard shakes his head. "This is crazy. That was _Doug_, I tell you!"

"Or an especially skilled actor," the man counters. He gives a faint smile. "You know, I once trained a spy who showed plenty of promise. Quite a catch, that one: no past, no conscience, no emotions. Once we rid him of that pesky sense of _self_ he still had, he could become anyone he wished. Anyone. By the time his training was done, he could have fooled even me. He was my _masterpiece_. If the man who took this Doug's place was even half as skilled, I can't blame you for falling for the act. I'll tell the bigwigs not to be too hard on you guys," he adds, giving the stunned guard an affable pat on the shoulder before walking out of the cell.

The guard follows him, clearly livid with anger. "That _bitch_," he growls. "She even mocked us while her accomplice sent us out to look for... for her accomplice. She told us to 'have fun looking for a ghost'. I thought she was just fucking with us, but now that we know Doug was already dead- sir?" he calls out in surprise when he realizes the other man stopped walking abruptly and is now standing still, lost in thought.

"Looking for a ghost," Outis repeats slowly. There is something bothering him, a sudden hunch he can't ignore. "Is this _exactly_ what she said?"

"Uh? Yeah, more or less-"

"No, my friend. More or less won't do at all. I want her _exact_ words," the man cuts him off, turning back to the guard and causing him to hastily step back. "Did she say just that? That you were looking for a _ghost_?"

The man fidgets. "Well... I think she said 'phantom' rather than 'ghost', but yeah, that's more or- I-I mean..."

That's all Outis needs to hear. "I'm taking this assignment," he cuts him off. "Call your superiors and let them know that." As he watches the guard quickly leaving to do as he asked, he reaches for another cigarette. He takes one long draw and releases the smoke in a slow breath, his brow furrowed in thought.

Perhaps his hunch is wrong; perhaps the choice of words means nothing. Perhaps there simply _is_ some other master of disguise out there who goes by that name. Still... it's worth a try, isn't it? _That_ one faked his death more than once already, after all. And even if this spy is not _him_, the assignment is worth taking. S_omeone_ infiltrated this place, after all, leaving with dangerous information YggdraCorp wouldn't want to get out.

And YggdraCorp pays very, very well to keep its secrets... _secret_.


	3. Crossroads

There is absolutely nothing remarkable about Robert LaRoche's grave.

Blackquill can't help but think, with no small amount of bitter amusement, that it's quite fitting. He remembers thinking the same of LaRoche's true face the first time he saw it: unremarkable, with nothing about it that caught the eye aside from the scar on his forehead.

And now it is the same with his grave: a plain thing, with a name and two dates written on it. There isn't even a picture, which is also so very fitting: it's a grave he's pass right by if it wasn't for the fact _that_ name is painfully familiar.

Robert LaRoche.

_Robert_. LaRoche was shaking and clinging to him when he had spoken that name for the first time, eyes bright and feverish and voice hoarse from screaming. He had repeated that name over and over and, like a broken disk_. Robert. My name is Robert_.

So much work to find that name, that identity, and here's all it was good for – to make his grave somewhat distinguishable to the few people who know that name... and the even fewer who'd want to find it to begin with. Which is to say, himself and Athena – two of the people LaRoche damaged the most. Fate has a way of turning everything around, Blackquill muses. And everyone called _him_ twisted.

"It's... quiet here," Athena speaks up beside him, finally breaking a long silence. Blackquill turns to look at her. She's clearly saddened – not that it's hard to miss, considering that widget shows everything she feels – and her hands are holding tightly on the small paper bag she brought. Liquorice strings, she had told him when he asked, then she had given him a small smile.

"It must sound so stupid," she had said. "But... well, he liked this stuff. It must have felt so odd to him, realizing that he _liked_ something. He didn't have likes or dislikes of his own for a long time," she had added.

Blackquill had nodded at her. "I don't think it's stupid," he had told her, then he had turned back to the grave. "As you recall, he also developed a taste for the best brandy money could buy. The best brandy _my_ money could buy, to be painfully exact," he had added, but his chuckle held no true amusement and he didn't even care that she could probably tell. He recalled bringing a bottle of that brandy in LaRoche's cell the night before his execution, two years before – and he recalled LaRoche's surprise.

"_... Is that brandy?"_

"_You seem to be rather fond on it, and I happened to have a spare bottle. I can promise you, no poison has tainted it."_

"_Hah. Like that would make much difference now. You're not planning on making me have my last drink on my own, are you?"_

He hadn't, nor he had planned on making him spend his last night in this world alone. He thought back of that night often in the days that followed the execution, the mixture of emotions raging in his chest almost unbearable. But as time passed and the wound began to heal, he could tell that at least regret was not among them. He made mistakes in his life, and he paid for each of them dearly... but that was not one.

He knows now that he would have regretted letting him walk on the gallows without seeing him that one last time. Anger and shame may have never left him, and he'd have had to live the rest of his days feeling as though the Phantom, _his phantom_, was still there – taunting him, but forever unreachable.

Now he can even think about LaRoche – not of _Fulbright_, never of that one mask; the sense of betrayal is still far too strong to allow it – without bitterness. There is sorrow, yes: sorrow for the lives and years that were lost, for the man LaRoche could have been hadn't his soul been taken from him... but the bitter anger that was his constant companion for seven years no longer burns in his chest.

"... Cemeteries aren't known for being especially noisy places," he finally speaks, turning back to the grave. They've been standing in silence for a while, neither of them truly knowing what they could even say.

It's odd to see Athena so silent, even in a cemetery. Actually, she'd won't stop speaking when they visit her mother's grave together: she talks and talks, as though they're back in Kurain and they're staring right at her again as she looks back at them from Maya Fey's body. She even talks when they visit Fulbright's grave. Not that much – sometimes they have to remind themselves they never really _met_ the man – but Athena never forgets to salute and exclaim 'in justice we trust!' before moving on.

But the Phantom's grave... that's where she falls silent without fail. "It's getting late. We should head back. I'd rather not be locked in here for the night," Blackquill finds himself adding, and Athena nods.

"That would be creepy," she agrees with a small smile, and steps forward. Blackquill watches in silence as she just puts the paper bag before the grave – it looks so _bare_ with no flowers or tokens, very much unlike Metis Cykes' or Fulbright's – and then steps back again.

Neither of them speaks as they leave. There is nothing left to say, after all, no words that would be fitting.

Only silence.

* * *

**Burgundine, Borginia, 1995**.

Aside from sleeping high up, one of the things about bunk beds that Robb likes most is that it takes just a few minutes to make a tent out of it. Take off the covers, hang them from all sides of the upper bunk and there you go. Okay, maybe the result is closer to a canopy bed with the curtains drawn than to a proper tent, but it still did the trick: that way he and Seymour could use the flashlight without any of the other kids sleeping in the same room complaining.

"So, what happens next?" Robb asks, keeping his voice low so that he won't wake up the others. Most of the others are heavy sleepers, but you can never be too careful. Last night Seymour stopped right on a cliffhanger, and Robb wants to know what happens next now – so he doesn't want anyone to wake up and complain and interrupt the tale. Seymour, who's sitting across him, grins and holds the flashlight under his face. The shadow effect makes him look kinda creepy, but then again that's probably the point.

Robb has come to like this nightly routine more than he expected. They wait a bit after the light out order in the orphanage and then, when they're sure the other guys in the room are sleeping – they don't think they'd rat them out or anything and the orphanage's director is too much of a bleeding heart to punish anyone even if he knew anyway, but the sense of secrecy makes everything better – he climbs down on the lower bunk with Seymour. They hang the covers to make their 'tent' and then Seymour starts telling the story, usually from whatever book he read that day since he's always reading.

It's a fair exchange: Seymour tells a story, Robb brings the candy.

"So, we left off with Odysseus and his companions blocked inside Polyphemus' cave, right?" Seymour is saying. Robb takes a candy from the small sack between them – a liquorice candy, his favorite – and pops it in his mouth before nodding.

"Hu-uh. And Polyphemus ate two of Odysseus' companions before leaving," he says. "How did Odysseus get out of _that_?"

"Hey, one thing at time," Seymour says before he clears his throat and resumes talking in an eerie whisper. "When Polyphemus returned to his cave that evening with his flock, he had no more mercy than he had in the morning. He walked in, blocked the entrance of the cave with a huge rock again, and grabbed two more men. They screamed and screamed, but there was nothing Odysseus could do for them. Polyphemus smashed them against the rocks, and ate them whole."

"Clothes and everything?"

That causes Seymour to frown in thought. "Don't know. The book didn't say anything about undressing, though. Guess he wasn't picky. He ate the bones as well anyway."

"And the content of their stomach and bowels, too."

"And the content of their... _eew_!"

"And also their di-"

"That's not the _point_," Seymour cuts him off with a disgusted grimace "He just ate them. The point of the tale is another. Want to know it or not?"

Robb immediately shuts his mouth and nods. Fun as it is to gross Seymour out, he really wants to know how Odysseus got out of _this_ one. "Fine, fine. Go on," he says, popping another piece of candy in his mouth.

"Good. So, the same thing happened the next morning: Polyphemus took two more men, smashed them on the rocks and ate them before leaving with his flocks, sealing Odysseus and his remaining men inside. But while he was away, Odysseus came up with a plan."

"I knew it!" Robb says, catching himself just on time so that he won't speak aloud. That's why he likes Odysseus – because he's clever and cunning and full of tricks, and can always outsmart everyone and _think_ his way out of trouble. "What did he do?"

"While Polyphemus was away, they took a long pole they found in the cave and sharpened one end, then they hardened it with fire. They hid the stake under straw, so that Polyphemus wouldn't suspect a thing when he got back. When he did, he took two more men. They screamed for Odysseus to help them, but he could do nothing for them. They were smashed against the cave's wall and eaten."

"Whole?"

"Don't even _start_."

"Killjoy. So, what did he _do_?"

Seymour grins again and puts the flashlight back under his face. "After Polyphemus was done eating his comrades, Odysseus stepped forward and offered him wine."

"Wine?"

"Yes. Strong and undiluted, to get him good and drunk. After drinking, Polyphemus asked for Odysseus' name, promising him a gift in exchange. Odysseus told him that his name was Nobody."

Robb blinks. "Nobody?"

"That's what he said, yes. It's something closer to Odysseus in Greek, though. Otis or something. Anyway, that's what it means – nobody."

"But why...?"

"Shh. We'll get to that later. So, Polyphemus promised him that, as a gift, he'd eat him last."

"Charming."

"Not the best host, I agree. But Odysseus got the last laugh, because Polyphemus was so drunk he fell in a deep sleep. So deep that he didn't awaken until they took out the sharpened stake and drove it in his only eye to blind him!"

Seymour speaks the last words in a feral growl, and Robb is entirely caught by surprise when he thrusts the flashlight right before his face, causing him to rear back and shut his eyes. "Hey!" he protests, blinking quickly to get his eyes working again, and he can hear Seymour snickering.

"Imagine if I put out your eye for real," he says, causing Robb to stick out his tongue at him.

"But I have _two_, jerk. So I'd still know my way to your neck," he says, sitting upright again.

Seymour grins. "But Polyphemus only had one. And with that one eye reduced to a gory mess, he was completely blind. Odysseus and his companions hid in the huge cave's nooks, and he was unable to find them. He screamed for the other giants to help him, but when they came outside his cave to ask him what was wrong. 'Who is hurting you?', they asked. And guess what he screamed back?"

Robb barely holds back a laugh. He's starting to see where this is going. "Nobody is hurting me," he says with a grin, which widens when Seymour nods.

"Yup! Polyphemus screamed: 'Nobody! Nobody is hurting me!'. And so they left, telling him that if he felt pain and nobody was hurting him, then his pain came from the gods and he should pray his father, Poseidon, to be healed."

With a snicker, Robb reaches for another candy. That's a good one, he thinks. Of course there was no way Odysseus could know _for sure_ that Polyphemus would be stupid enough to use the name he gave him _that_ way, but still. That was smart thinking. Had the giant been able to tell the others what was going on, Odysseus and his men would have been lost. "So, Polyphemus can't find them. But they're still trapped in. How do they get out?" he asks.

Seymour shrugs. "Don't know."

"What doesn't it mean, you don't know?" Robb protests, starting to frown.

"Hey, the library was closing down and I don't get to bring any books here. I'll go read the rest tomorrow," Seymour says, and turns off the flashlight, leaving both of them in darkness. The room isn't completely dark – the windows let in enough light from the street to see well enough to go around – but the covers around them keep out the light the same way they mostly kept in the flashlight's. "Besides, it's getting late. We should get some slee- hey!" Seymour protests when Robb sighs dramatically and throws himself on him, causing them both to land in a heap on the mattress. "Get off!"

"But I'm tiiiired," Robb whines, clinging to Seymour's torso. "I don't want to climb _all_ the way up to my bunk, mommy!"

Seymour sighs, his attempts at getting Robb – who's both taller and bigger than him – off him ceasing. "You're too lazy to put your covers back in place, aren't you?"

"That too. So, can I stay? Pretty please?" Robb says in a perfect impression of a little girl's voice. Beneath him, Seymour chuckles.

"Okay, okay, you can stay – just get _off_ me!" he mutters, and Robb grins before rolling off him and hogging both pillows. There is a bit of squabbling over them – _quiet_ squabbling, because they have to keep their voices low not to wake the others up – which ends as it always does: with one pillow each... because Robb was nice enough to let him yank one from his grasp, of course.

There is some shifting next, because the bunk is narrow and they have to rest very close to fit in, but Robb doesn't really mind: the room gets kind of chilly at night and the covers aren't always enough, so getting to share come body heat isn't that bad. It doesn't even matter that Seymour's black hair is tickling his nose a bit.

"Hey, birdbrain?"

"What?" Seymour mutters sleepily. He yawns and reaches to yank the blankets they're sharing a little further up over both of them.

":.. Nothing. It's just that I realized I hadn't called you birdbrain the whole day. That wouldn't do," Robb says, and chuckles when Seymour snorts and elbows him in the ribs before settling down again.

* * *

"_Ah!"_

The Yatagarasu is not surprised at all when the Phantom gasps and sits up on the couch, drawing in long breaths and bringing a hand up to his head. She's been watching him toss and turn for a bit in the faint light coming from the window – the most interesting thing to look at in that hotel room, which says a lot about how boring it is – and she expected him to awaken with a start at some point.

She reaches for the nightstand beside the bed she's resting on – "ladies first", she told him before taking over the bed and leaving the couch to him – and turns on the light. The Phantom hisses shuts his eyes against it. "I take it you forgot to take your dream suppressants," she comments. He takes a pill every evening to keep himself from dreaming at all. Since _this_ is what happens every time he forgets to take it or has no chance to, she can definitely see why.

"They ran out. The assignment took too long," the Phantom grits out, a hand pressed against his forehead.

"Don't you _ever_ have pleasant dreams?"

The Phantom snorts and reaches for the backpack on the floor right by the couch. He pulls out what the Yatagarasu recognizes as migraine medication. Unlike the dream suppressant he uses – a drug that's not supposed to be even distributed, let alone used with no medical supervisions – that kind of medication can be bought everywhere. "Whether or not the dream itself was pleasant is irrelevant. It's what comes _next_ I'm not fond on," he mutters before gulping down a couple of pills without water. That's unsurprising, too: he has a tendency to get terrible migraines whenever a memory from _before_ comes back to surface... which can happen when he's sleeping and his guard is down, having taken no drug to prevent it.

"Was Blackquill involved this time around?"

The Phantom stiffens for a moment, but he replies with a flat voice. "The dead won't stay dead. That's all."

"Your friend?" she guesses. She knows little enough of the Phantom's past, though not _that_ much less than the Phantom himself, but she knows of this boy the Phantom grew up with, this Seymour. She knows he died in the same incident that resulted with the Phantom losing all his memories and great part of his emotional spectrum. _Those_ seem to have come back, at least partially, but of course his friend never did... if not in his dreams. He doesn't seem to be a welcomed presence.

The Phantom doesn't reply to her question; he hardly ever does whenever his past is involved. "Turn off the light," is all he says, leaning back down on the couch.

"Shouldn't you take the dream suppressant as well?"

"They never come back more than once the same night. Turn off the light," he repeats. His voice is flat, but he's screwing his eyes shut against the pain and she decides to just keep quiet and do as she's told for once. There will be plenty of occasions to mock him when he's feeling better, she decides. Maybe tomorrow, when someone comes to pick them up from the hotel and lead them to the headquarters.

Well, _before_ then; maybe over breakfast. She knows better than bringing up that little problem of his in front of anyone who might consider it a fatal flaw.

She lies awake for a time, listening. The Phantom's breathing turns slower after a time, more regular, which can either mean he's asleep or that he's pretending to be. It's hard to tell with him.

The Yatagarasu stops listening soon enough, but she can't quite fall asleep yet. She keeps stating at the ceiling, wondering what must it be like to have memories from _before_. She has them, sure enough: she remembers the institution she grew up in, she remember the first name she had – but it's the name Alba chose for her, not _hers_. When the Phantom remembers his life _before_, he remembers a boy called Robert LaRoche. She has no clue what her birth name used to be: she was too young when it was taken by war along with everything else. To her, there is almost no _before_. Almost, because there _is_ something, but it's so muddled an distant it feels more like a long-faded dream than a proper memory. She was barely one year old, perhaps, so young that she knows the memory – those bits and pieces of one – is not even supposed to be there at all.

A deafening sound of gunfire, shattering glass, screams. A smell – blood and smoke and gunpowder; even though she couldn't recognize them as such back then, she can tell now . More screams, shouts, _orders_. Then someone picking her up and running for what felt like an eternity, away from the smoke and fire and cries. But the smell of blood and gunpowder was still there, right on the rough fabric her face was pressed onto.

A Cohdopian army uniform, she would think later, but that only shows how muddled the memory is, how tainted by perceptions from _later_. General Alba had been wearing civilian clothes when he had torn her away from death's maw: she simply thought it was an uniform because that was the clothing she would come to associate him with later. Much later, when her _legal tutor_ would bother to see her again sixteen years later.

The Yatagarasu lifts herself on her elbows and glances at the Phantom's still form on the couch, then at the box of medication he left on the floor after taking a couple of pills.

If that's what remembering _before_ feels like, maybe it's a good thing she has little to remember to begin with.

* * *

"Those _bastards_!"

Agent Lang's words came out as a feral growl as he tore his gaze away from yet another empty room. He walks back to the hallway most of his men were standing in, anger barely in check. They were so close to a breakthrough, so _close_ – but it's now obvious that those rats have packed up and left, taking any proof of the activities he _knows_ were carried on in that facility away with them.

While the Interpol is certain that someone has been conducting human experiments here, there is nothing left to prove it... and the only target whose name they knew, a local politician, died in unclear circumstances days before they could get him. Raiding this place may have been their only way to learn more, and yet they turned out with _nothing_. Or almost.

"We have found something, sir," one of his men had told him, standing rigidly before him. "Luminol revealed a large bloodstain in a room on the ground floor, plus a few smaller ones that appear to be drips. There may be enough traces for some DNA testing."

Lang had nodded back at him. It's not much, but it's better than nothing... and it appears to be all the information they'll manage to get from this blasted place. "Lang Zi says: search where the water is deepest. Do take samples and have the tests run immediately. Highest priority. And take several samples in different spots. The blood may belong to several people. _Go_."

And the man is coming back just now, which is the only thing that keeps Lang from further cursing against the worms they're after: perhaps the blood samples will give them a lead to follow, something that could at least make this raid and all the work behind it worthwhile.

"I have the results, sir," his man speaks, but something about his tone and posture isn't quite right – and it doesn't escape Lang how his gaze shifts away from him as he speaks.

"Well?" he asks, reading himself for a negative answer. It's not what it gets.

"There... there is a match with our database, sir. The blood in the room belonged to two individuals. We could identify one of them," is the reply. It's good news, but his subordinate still avoids to look at him as he handles him a slip of paper. Lang frowns in mild confusion as he takes it and looks down at it.

And then he can tell exactly why his subordinate won't look at him while speaking.

_MATCH FOUND  
Code: 24601-2019  
Name: Unknown.  
Known Aliases: Calisto Yew; Shih-na  
Status: Unknown.  
Highest Priority for Capture._

For several moments, all Lang can do is stare. There is a cracking noise he doesn't pay any attention to; he simply opens his hand to let the remains of his sunglasses fall on the floor and looks back up at the subordinate who just gave him the report. Who, on the other hand, is standing rigidly and sweating profusely.

_Her blood. Why is her blood here? Was she hurt? Was she killed?_

Lang chases away the thought from his mind like a wolf chasing a scavenger off its prey. No, it cannot be – he can't allow it to be. She's _his_ to deal with, and he won't let anyone take that from him. "You said that you found blood of two individuals," he finally says slowly. "You also said there was a large bloodstain and a few smaller ones. Which one was _hers_?"

"Her blood sample was taken from a small drop, sir. The rest of the blood belonged to someone else. Someone who's unlikely to have survived after such a loss of blood, I may add."

Lang nods, eyes turning back to the results of the DNA testing. This is good to know: while something did happen to her – something that caused her to lose a small amount of blood – there is nothing indicating she may have been killed. Lang gives a barking laugh. It's almost amusing how a single drop of blood gave her away – just as one single drop of blood damned Quercus Alba once. He turns to his men with a predatory smile. "I want you to scour this place from top to bottom. _Now_."

"But we already-"

"You'll do it again!" Lang cuts him off with a snarl. "And again and _again_ until something comes up! Lang Zi says: successful investigations are the result of multiple returns to a crime scene. Now go!"

As his subordinates scatter in all directions, their hurried footsteps echoing in the hallway, Lang looks down to realize he crushed the sheet of paper in his hand without realizing it – much like he crushed his sunglasses. And he liked those glasses, too. _Shih-na_ is going to have quite a lot to answer for when he finally captures her once again... and this time there will be no great escape for her. He'll make sure of it.

"What were you _doing_ in this place?" Lang asks aloud. He receives no answer but the fading sound of his subordinates' footsteps.

* * *

"_... Do you have any last words?"_

_LaRoche recoils and looks over the glass wall separating the gallows from them before he closes his eyes not to see the noose and speaks. "Prosecutor Blackquill," he calls out. "I... Blackquill, I..." his voice fades, and he falls silent for a few moments before he can resume speaking. "Prosecutor Blackquill. Miss Cykes. Thank you. For... for giving me a name, for making me _someone_. Thank you for for not giving up on me. And..." he hesitates now, and needs to draw in another breath, and he's about to speak again..._

… then the Steel Samurai tune rings, causing Blackquill to awaken with a start and covered in cold sweat. His mind reels, and it takes him a few moments to realize his cell phone is ringing. He slams a hand on the light switch and grabs the cell phone with the other one, narrowing his eyes against the sudden glare.

"Who?" he snaps, his voice still hoarse with sleep. He refuses to let himself think of what he awoke from.

"Good morning to you, too," an unimpressed voice comes from the other side of the line.

He snarls, immediately taking the opportunity to distract himself from the dream – the _memory_ – with anger.

"Skye. I trust you have an extremely valid reason to call me at this ungodly hour of the morning."

"Hey, it's... what, still five thirty?"

"It is _ungodly_. Does this mean you spent the night at the precinct?"

"Looks like it. I wasn't paying much attention at the time. It was for _science_. Anyway, I have news!"

Ema Skye sounds so pleased that Blackquill can't help but worry. "I trust no ill fate has befallen Prosecutor Gavin by your hand," he says. It's unclear to him why she dislikes Prosecutor Gavin so much, but she does dislike him quite a lot and he'd rather not have to accuse _another_ detective of murder.

She hums, and with the mind's eye he can just _see_ her shrugging. "Not by my hand, no."

"... Does that mean something did happen to him?"

There is another hum and then the sound of chewing. "Not that I know, but a girl can dream," she says. She can't seem to keep herself from guzzling down those sugar-coated snacks of hers even while talking; it's a habit he finds rather annoying, but he knows that more than a few people may complain just as much about his habit of holding a feather between his lips. "So, do you want the news or not? It's about Stan Doff. You know, the one who was a bit too alive for a dead guy on Sunday evening."

That causes Blackquill's tiredness to vanish. "Have you found out something?"

"Well, I ran some tests on the tissue samples. Some tests I came up with, no conventional crap."

Blackquill shuts his eyes and holds back a sigh. Typical. "And I suppose it's not a formally _approved_ one."

"Hmph. They're late with approval, that's all. They're too slow. Law can't stop _science_," she says.

That's rather worrying coming from a one of the precincts' forensic experts. "Law is there for a _reason_."

Skye sighs. "Oh, come on. You sound all the world like Bobby used to, you know," she says, and Blackquill finds himself unable to say anything to that. Skye pauses, too, and they share a few moments of silence before she speaks again."Alright, listen. It may not be conventional, but it _worked_. It shows something the other tests failed to pick up. Isn't that the important part?"

Blackquill supposes she has a point. It's not like he can object to someone using less than strictly legal means to obtain something important: claiming the guilt of a crime he didn't commit wasn't precisely legal, either, but he hadn't hesitated to do so when it came to choosing between that and Athena's life and happiness.

"Fair enough," he finally says. "What did you find?"

"_Something_."

"... I have grasped as much. Would you care to elaborate?"

Skye sighs. "Okay, I'll try to make it simple," she says. Back when they first began working together from time to time she'd eagerly explain the scientific details to him, but she's since come to realize he's not enough of an expert to really make enough sense out of technicalities. "Decomposition is caused by two factors: autolysis and putrefaction. Putrefaction is the breakdown of tissues by bacteria. Autolysis is the breaking down of tissues by the body's own internal chemicals and enzymes; the very beginning of a body's degradation, starting about four or five minutes after death. There is something odd about that here."

"Something odd?"

"Yes. To make it baby simple for you, it's like autolytic cell destruction started _before_ the victim's death."

Blackquill blinks, any protest he was about to voice for her dismissal of his scientific understanding dying in his throat. "Are you saying that the body's own internal chemicals and enzymes began breaking down the tissues while the victim was still _alive_?"

"Hu-uh," she replies through a mouthful of her usual snacks. "I figure that would be painful, rotting alive. But the guy seemed pretty healthy when he took the money from some ATM the night before dying, right?"

Blackquill nods, even though he knows Skye cannot see him doing so. "He seemed perfectly alright. So what you're saying is that he began _rotting alive_ in the hours between Sunday evening and Monday morning?"

"It seems the only explanation that would make any amount of sense, yes. Which isn't much, considering that it _doesn't_ make sense. How could something like that even happen? And that _fast_? The body was so decayed even_ I _thought he must have been dead for at least three days!"

"If you can't think of an explanation, Skye, I can't see how can you expect me to," Blackquill says drily. "Do write a detailed report and have Gumshoe deliver it to my desk as soon as he shows up," he adds, and hangs the phone without even waiting for a reply. He'll likely get a few snacks thrown at him for that later – snacks he'll slice in mid-air with practiced ease, as usual – but right now his mind is entirely taken by other matters.

While they have no explanation on how this may have been possible, what Skye found may just change everything – starting with the cause of death, so far believed to be a blow on the head. He can't think of any natural way that could lead someone's body to start rotting while they're still alive; not quickly enough to kill them in hours and make them look like a several days old corpse upon discovery the next morning.

But then again, murder is rarely a natural occurrence... and the wound on the victim's head proves this to be a murder, or at least something somebody wanted to pass as one. But what could possibly cause a body to deteriorate in such a way...?

Blackquill leaves his bed and walks up to his desk, and glances down at some of the case's documents he brought with him for further reading. With Gumshoe's wife – Maggey, was it not? – as the prime suspect, it was assumed that the murder's motive had something to do with money; perhaps, the police had suggested, the victim had caught his secretary stealing from him. But now that Maggey's innocence has been proved without doubt, it's likely that the motive was entirely different. They're going to have to look more closely to the Stan Doff's life to understand what the motive may have been; and, after the conversation he's had with Skye, Blackquill has a gut feeling that the man's work just might be something to look into.

The victim's profile is among them, and it's the first thing Blackquill picks up. He opens it, and there it is – the role Mr. Doff used to have in a company whose name Blackquill couldn't recall.

_R&amp;D supervisor for YggdraCorp, Los Angeles_.

* * *

"Stan Doff? Who in the blazes _is_ this Stan Doff?"

Lang's snarl causes some of his men to recoil, but he barely acknowledges that. Honestly, when he was told that the investigation had led to finding some fingerprints that could be identified he had expected the name to belong to at least one of the suspect names they already had – but this one name tells him absolutely _nothing_. The subordinate he spoke to looks back down at the tablet the information is being displayed on.

"It appears to be an American, sir. R&amp;D supervisor for YggdraCorp."

That is a surprise, too: it's not a name Lang has heard until now. "What the hell _is_ YggdraCorp?"

"I'm requesting more information from the headquarters as we speak, sir," his subordinate replies. "As for this Stan Doff, he Resides in Los Angeles and... _oh_."

The surprised noise that leaves the man causes Lang to frown. "What is it?"

"He... he appears to have recently died in his office in LA, sir. In odd circumstances very reminiscing of those of our, uh, previous target. It seems that-" he trails off with a yelp when Lang takes the tabled from his hands and stares down at it for a few moments, eyes narrowed. Then, slowly, he smiles and looks back up.

"If this isn't connected, then I'm Little Red Hiding Hood. Call the headquarters. Tell them the investigation is moving to Los Angeles. As for me, I'm going to call an old friend in LA for support," he adds, and gives a low laugh. "I'm certainly he's going to be delighted to know our mutual _friend_ is back in the picture."

* * *

"See, I _told_ you we'd be getting the assignment. I've got to say I kinda missed Los Angeles. Didn't you?"

The Phantom gives his partner a blank look. They have just been told the assignments is theirs – no real surprise there – but are still waiting to see someone who'll tell them what they're precisely after... and whose identities they'll need to take.

"What I'm missing now are a few minutes of blessed silence," he says. However slim the chances of running in anyone he knows during this missions are, he can't say the thought of going back to LA fills him with joy.

Not that there are many things that _do_, if any. But her incessant talking isn't helping matters.

The Yatagarasu gives a snort of a laugh, applying some more make-up to hide her still swollen lip. "Stop being so serious. I'm sure it will be fun."

"Your idea of _fun_ is questionable to say the least," the Phantom says, standing up from his seat when a door at the far end of the room opens and an agent gestures for them to go in – to be told more about their new assignment, no doubt. She laughs, and gets up as well.

"Oh, come on now. We had fun that time in Allebahst."

"You and I remember Allebahst very differently," he says dully.

* * *

_A/N: yes, the last line is a reference to The Avengers. I promised someone I'd slip in some from time to time, and I did._ XD


	4. Monsters

"Trucy, are you _sure_ you know what you're doing...?"

"Of course I'm sure! I've been practicing for a long time, in case you missed it!"

"Then why do you have to practice more on _me_?"

"Prosecutor Blackquill gave me some tips I want to try out. He says I should flick my wrist a certain way. Don't worry, I already tried with other targets and I got them most times!"

"_Most times_ is not enough! Athena, won't you say some- stop grinning like that!"

Athena snickers, a hand pressing over her mouth. There are few things as amusing as watching Trucy forcing Apollo to help her practice her tricks – even when said tricks are... well, potentially dangerous. But then again it didn't happen too often to see Apollo with his back against the wall, balancing an apple on his head and worriedly staring at the throwing knife in Trucy's hand.

"Aw, don't worry. She's good. You'll be safe. Besides, Simon taught her. There is nothing to worry about."

Apollo drops his shoulders, nearly causing the apple to fall off his head. "Are you serious? In my books that's one _more_ reason to be worried. I wouldn't be surprised if he suggested her to hit me on purpose."

Athena brings a hand up to her mouth, pretending to be shocked. Truth to be told, she wouldn't be surprised to know he suggested her to do just that: his sense of humor is more than slightly morbid. "_Sacré bleu!_ The nerve! Are you truly saying he'd be capable of a such thing?"

"_Yes._"

Trucy grins, twirling the knife between her fingers. "Well, he said something about trying to cut off his antennae with a good throw, really... but I'll stick with the apple. For now."

"How about sticking to a good, old-fashioned target?" Apollo mutters.

"Or we could paint one on your forehead. It's so big and shiny!" Athena suggests innocently, and grins at Apollo's exasperated look.

"You've been hanging with Prosecutor Gavin again, haven't you?" he grumbles.

"Ja."

"Don't you have anything _else_ to talk about? Like, don't know, trials? Evidence? German jargon?"

"We also talk a lot about your hair. And the face you make when you lose faith in humanity. Yup, that one!"

"Enough talking! I've got to practice here," Trucy speaks up, lifting the knife. "C'mon, Polly, keep still..."

"Wha-? No, wait-" Apollo starts, but he's cut off by the sound of the front door opening. That immediately prompts Trucy to hide the knife and do her best to look totally innocent, which is not surprise: Athena knows Mr. Wright is not a big fan of tricks that involve weapons. But it's not Mr. Wright to show up: it's a short girl with brown hair tied in loops and unmistakable clothes.

"Pearl!" Trucy exclaims, and Athena can feel relief coming out of Apollo in waves as she seemingly forgets all about him and runs to the door.

Pearl gives her usual timid smile when she hugs her, and she has barely enough time to say 'hi' before Trucy gives her a quick peck on the lips. Athena doesn't need Widget to register the peak of happiness, either. And it's not like one would need Apollo's gift to notice the blush spreading on her cheeks.

"Hey, Pearl!" she exclaims, standing from the couch. "It's been a while!"

"It's been _forever_," Trucy proclaims, clinging to Pearl in a way that reminds Athena of a koala.

"It's been just a couple of weeks," Pearl protests, her shy smile melting in a slight frown when she looks around. "Enough for you to stop cleaning up after yourselves, though."

"Hey, don't look at _me_," Apollo mutters, giving the apple a bite now that it's clear Trucy isn't up to practice anymore. "I've cleaned the toilet all the time. Cleaned it good."

"Well, and _I _have watered Charley," Athena says quickly. Pearl is adorable most of the time, but she's someone no one would want to make angry. She grins. "Come to think of it, Mr. Wright and Trucy have been slacking off a lot on the cleaning..."

"Hey!" Trucy protests before turning back to Pearl with her best puppy dog eyes. "That's not true! And besides, how can you be angry at your special someone?"

That causes the frown to melt in a child-like giggle. Athena can't blame her: staying angry at Trucy is hard enough even when she's _not_ your girlfriend. Which reminds her... "Say, when _are_ you going to tell Mr. Wright anyway?" she asks, glancing at Trucy.

"In a bit," she says, grinning at her somewhat mischievously. She seems to be getting a lot of fun out of watching Mr. Wright squirm over her vague mentions of 'seeing someone'. Athena finds it a bit cruel, but Apollo doesn't seem to mind: he rather likes it when someone other than _him_ is the butt of the joke.

The mention of Mr. Wright causes Pearl to suddenly step back, something not too far away from a manic look in her eyes. "That's why I'm here! Mystic Maya will be coming over next week! We need to prepare," she announces.

Athena can hear Apollo start snickering for a moment before he conveniently turns it into a coughing fit. She can't blame him, though – the amount of awkwardness Trucy and Pearl's determination to get Mr. Wright and Maya Fey together has caused in the past couple of years gave them more than a few excuses to have a laugh at Mr. Wright's expenses. While Pearl is adamant in her certainty that Mr. Wright must be Maya's _special someone_, Trucy seems to be determined to make Maya her new mother.

And neither will take a no for an answer.

As Trucy and Pearl scurry to the next room to discuss their next battle plan to throw Mr. Wright and Maya Fey in each other's arms, Apollo chuckles. "I wonder what they'll come up with this time. I hope it will be better thought out than the time they signed them up for a survival course together."

Athena shudders at the memory. "Yeah, same. Almost dying together doesn't seem really romantic to me," she says before smiling a bit. "Glad Maya is coming over, though. It's been a while," she adds. While they don't know each other that much – as the Master of the Kurain Channeling Technique, she doesn't get to visit them very often; it's actually more likely for Mr. Wright and Trucy to go to Kurain on weekends, really, with her and Apollo going along from time to time.

Still, she likes her... and most of all, she's grateful to her. She gave her something she didn't expect she could ever possibly have, something she never even dreamed of – the chance of seeing her mother again, to talk to her, to _hold_ her. She had cried so much her eyes burned for hour afterwords, but she had also smiled and laughed and then cried some more.

And Simon... well, his stoic composure had broken pretty quickly, really. It would have been impossible for it not to, not with all the emotions raging in his heart; Athena had realized soon enough how much Simon had needed that last meeting, that last goodbye. He had needed it even more than _she_ did.

… Which reminds her, she hasn't heard from Simon in a bit; not since their visit to LaRoche's grave the previous week. She knows he's been busy looking into Stan Doff's murder, but nothing more. Maybe she should give him a call, she thinks.

Just to see what he's been up to.

* * *

"... Therefore, with nothing linking Doff's death to his job, I was denied access to any YggdraCorp facility."

Blackquill doesn't truly bother to hide his frustration as he finishes talking: he _is_ frustrated, sure enough, and there is no point in hiding it from the Chief Prosecutor. Who, on the other hand, doesn't really look fazed: he's been just listening in silence, occasionally sipping his tea.

"I suppose this means the investigation is stalled," he says.

Blackquill nods. "Unfortunately, yes. There truly is no other lead to follow, but we don't have any solid proof. There is something _odd_ in the way his body decayed, as Skye's tests have confirmed, but no one can tell precisely what it is and what may have caused his body to rot while he was still alive. As things stand, YggdraCorp is under no obligation to give us any information – much less to let us inside their offices."

"On that you are correct," Edgeworth says, taking his cup of tea away from his lips and back on his desk. "Under normal circumstances and without any clear lead to tell us his job may be in any way involved in his murder, YggdraCorp has every right to keep us out of their facilities."

Blackquill raises an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. "I take it there is something that could make the circumstances... less than normal?" he asks. He's not surprised when Edgeworth nods.

"Yes. It involves the Interpol." That causes Blackquill to blink, honestly taken aback.

"The Interpol?" he repeats. What does the Interpol have to do with this?

Edgeworth nods. "Yes. I believe I mentioned Agent Lang a few times to you, didn't I?"

He did, and Blackquill remembers it clearly. It was thanks to Agent Lang's intervention that they were allowed to retain custody of LaRoche instead of having to hand him over. In exchange of information, of course, but LaRoche provided it quite readily in exchange for the one thing he wanted – his identity.

If Robert LaRoche could face death as his own person, it's also thanks to Agent Lang.

"Yes," Blackquill says quietly. "I remember."

"I must admit I don't know the details yet," Edgeworth says. "But I know something he was investigating in a country called Reijam leads to Stan Doff. I'm certain Agent Lang will be glad to give your further information as soon as he's here. Which, truth to be told, was supposed to be several minutes ag-"

A knock at the door cuts him off, causing him to chuckle. "I should have imagined this would happen," he mutters before calling out. "Do come in."

The door opens, and Blackquill recognizes the man who steps in right away. They never met in person, but he's seen his picture in a couple of reports from the Interpol. Of course, he wasn't wearing those curious sunglasses in any of them. "Agent Lang," the Chief Prosecutor greets him. "It's been some time."

"Mr. Prosecutor," Lang says, bringing his hands together and briefly bowing his head in Edgeworth's direction before he walks up to the desk and comes to stand next to Blackquill. "Looks like fate brought us back together. A shame you'd rather sit behind a desk rather than joining the hunt this time around," he adds.

Chief Prosecutor Edgeworth chuckles. "I have other duties to perform, I'm afraid, but it matters not. I'm certain Prosecutor Blackquill will be up to the challenge. He's currently investigating Stan Doff's death."

That causes Agent Lang to turn his attention to Blackquill for the first time since the moment he stepped in. He stares at him with a frown for a few moments, then his frown melts and turns into a smirk. "So we finally meet; I've heard much of you," he says, and bows his head slightly. "A man willing to put his life on the line to protect his mentor's pup is one deserving of respect. I'm certain we'll get along, you and I."

Blackquill finds himself returning the smirk. He doesn't instinctively like many people, but Agent Lang seems to be one of the exceptions. "I'm sure we will. May I ask what has brought the Interpol on this case?"

Lang's smirk melts into a serious expression. "It's a long story. Mind if we put that nice couch you've got to use, Mr. Prosecutor?" he asks, turning to glance at Edgeworth. "I've been up and running for a while now. Lang Zi says: keep your limbs strong and ready to leap for the kill."

Edgeworth gives him an amused look. "I'd have offered you a seat even without Lang Zi's endorsement, Agent Lang. Do make yourself comfortable and explain us the details."

And explain he does. Blackquill listens in silence as Lang speaks of a long investigation to uncover and bring to an end the wide-spread use of humans as guinea pigs to test dangerous substances in several countries.

"We believe all these tests are aimed to test something dangerous. By all means not a _medicine_," Lang says. "We knew the experiments happened, but we couldn't figure out who was truly behind it all. We found our first solid lead in the Republic of Reijam; a local politician was likely to be involved. But before we could get to him, he died... oddly."

"Define 'oddly'," Blackquill says, but he's starting to guess what it may be about.

"There was no wound on him. None at all. It could have looked all the world like heart failure, hadn't his body been as rotten as his soul. But he had been seen alive only a short time earlier; not enough time had passed to explain his body's state of decay. Does it sound familiar, Prosecutor Blackquill?"

It does, of course. It sounds very, very familiar. "Stan Doff's body presented the same problem," he says. "Someone in our precinct's forensic squad has brought up the possibility his body may have started to rot while he was still alive. But how would you know that? This is a local crime. How did the Interpol find a connection so quickly?"

Lang gives a barking laugh. "Sharp as a fang, this one," he says approvingly. "The short answer is, we didn't. We found something _else_ that connected this case to ours; finding out how Mr. Doff died only made the connection more obvious to us."

Now that's interesting, and good to know. The more they find to connect Stan Doff to the Interpol's case, the more chances there are that YggdraCorp will have to yield and allow them to take their investigation to their offices. "What did you find?"

Lang scowls. "We found a facility," he says. "One of those where humans were experimented on. We _knew_ that was what happened in there. But by the time we got there, there was no one left in. No one, and nothing. They left the place taking everything they could move with them."

"Do you think they were warned of your arrival beforehand?"

Lang seems to hesitate for a moment. "Perhaps," he says, then turns back to Edgeworth. "She was _there_ before us. We found traces of her DNA in there. Hell knows what she may have been up to."

That causes Blackquill to blink in confusion. Wasn't this about Stan Doff? "Her?" he repeats, gaze moving from Lang to Edgeworth and then back to Lang. "Who's _her_?"

Agent Lang turns back to him with a bitter scowl. "A snake in a woman's body, that's what she is," he mutters. "She used to be my second in command, once. My trusted right hand. My trust was horribly misplaced, however; she was a mole sent to infiltrate the Interpol. Failing to realize that is still my greatest failure. She escaped the clutches of justice years ago; I won't rest until I catch her again," Lang says, and gives a faint smirk. "I suppose it's useless to tell you, of all people, how little her betrayal was appreciated."

Blackquill nods at him. He can understand, and how. He knows more then he'd like of broken trust and betrayal. He knows how deep it can cut: it cut _him_ to the bone, after all.

"No, you don't," he finds himself saying. "I fully understand. I'll give all the help I can so that she can be apprehended. But I need to know – how does Stan Doff figure in all this?"

The scowl on Agent Lang's face fades slightly, but not entirely. "We found a finger print," he says. "They didn't wipe every surface accurately enough, and a few prints stayed. Most of them couldn't be identified, but one was – and it belongs to Stan Doff. The print places him in a facility where, we strongly suspect, human beings were experimented on against their will. Not only that, but his death bears striking similarities to that of a man we _know_ was involved. There was more than enough to link the two cases."

"And you believe YggdraCorp may be involved," Blackquill says. It's easy to see why: they're dealing with experiments on human beings, and a man involved worked for nanobiology company that's already proved itself less than willing to cooperate with the law enforcement.

Lang gives a somewhat feral smile. "You bet we do. Now, Mr. Prosecutor here told me you were having trouble investigating YggdraCorp's LA offices," he says, smile widening. "I can put a remedy to that."

Well, isn't that good news. "That would be most appreciated," Blackquill says. "I have to warn you, though – they'll try to cling to even the smallest rule in fine print to keep you out. Are you certain the Interpol's authority will be enough to make them yield?"

The other man throws back his head and laughs. "Oh, it will be. If it was enough to make a country's ruler strip their war hero of his ambassadorship, you can _bet_ it will be enough to make YggdraCorp open its doors," he says, and smirks again. Blackquill notices for the first time how similar to fangs his teeth are. "Just leave it to me."

* * *

Outis doesn't mind long flights at all.

He finds them relaxing, actually. While his way of life requires him to be connected and all too aware of what's going on around him – you don't last for long if you're not, after all – long flights are a much appreciated break. A World War could break out beneath him and he wouldn't know at all until landing, so there is no point in worrying about anything at all. It's like putting reality on hold for a time.

Not bad.

Outis sits back with a satisfied sigh and, after giving a polite nod at the woman sitting next to him and a warm smile to the child on her lap, he turns to glance at the clouds outside to proceed forgetting all about the situation at hand. At least for a time, until the plan lands in Los Angeles and reality calls him back to work, he can allow himself the luxury and indulge into fond memories.

He supposes most people wouldn't precisely call them _fond_ memories, but then again he's not most people.

* * *

**Undisclosed training ground, 2011**

The man – who goes by Umber, for now; he's had many names and he'll have more in the future, no doubt, but this one works right now – quite likes watching the newest recruits fight.

Hand to hand combat is one of the first things they teach, and a good basis to determine who is going to make good spy material and who's doomed to fail. While it's not the most important skill for a spy, being capable in combat – any kind, from hand-to-hand to weapons – is still something they value... and good to evaluate the subject's attitude. Quick-thinking and versatility are both very important for a spy, after all, and a fight was the best way to see whether or not a _candidate_ had either.

The ones who're fighting now are evenly matched for now, both of them fast and fairly capable for people who had little to no training until a short time ago; for a while it seems like a dance, as they come together and move apart, weaving and circling each other, looking for a weak spot and trying to exploit it before spinning away to circle again.

This won't do in a mission, of course. Spies are not supposed to get into long fights: when taking down someone is necessary they're supposed to do so as quickly as possible, even without weapons. But there is time to teach them how to do that: for now, what he really wants to see is what potential they have.

Although, he has to admit, there is one in particular he's interested in. Umber leans a little on the balcony he's standing on and looks a little further down the yard, where what are referred to as 'the new ones' are standing in two separate lines, watching the fight as well.

Johan – not his name, but he can't remember his own and it's the one he was using when he was taken in, so it will do for now – is standing right at the front of one of the lines. He'll be next, but he shows no nervousness. Actually, he shows nothing. As usual.

He seems to unnerve his fellow trainees, but that's no surprise: he unnerved some people on higher positions than Umber's, actually.

"You were supposed to kill him, if anything," one of his superiors had told him after calling him to his office, Johan's evaluation papers in his hands. "Not to recruit him."

Umber had laughed. "I couldn't resist, I'm afraid. He's an interesting case. I think he has plenty of potential."

"Plenty of potential to backfire on us," his superior had grunted. "We know nothing about him. Nothing."

"Neither does he, for the matter. Isn't that interesting?"

"And dangerous."

"For whoever we set him against, yes. He was a killer for hire; he won't shy away from murder when it's needed. He was skilled enough to go unnoticed for quite some time. A master of disguise, and he did it all on his own. If properly trained, he'll become the perfect spy."

"That's what you say."

"Have I ever been wrong on a recruit so far?"

There was a moment of silence, then the other man had sighed. "There is always a first time. Have you _seen_ his psychological evaluation? It's basically one damn huge question mark. No past. No emotions. _Nothing_. The closest they got to define him was, and I quote, 'a textbook sociopath'; and even _that_ isn't quite correct."

"I could tell as much without psychological evaluations," Umber had said dismissively.

"_Why_ did you pick him?"

A shrug. "You could say he piqued my interest. He's unlike anyone else I've met. Wouldn't you agree?"

His superior had sighed again, putting down the paper and leaning back on his seat. "You're supposed to choose potential spies, not to pick up monstersfor your amusement_._"

"This will be _our_ monster," Umber had said, although he meant that only partially. He had found him... and, if the suspect that had slithered its way in his mind turned out to be true, he may as well have _made_ him. As far as he was concerned, this was _his_ monster.

"Monsters aren't as easily controlled as we'd like."

"I will be easier than you may think. He's a creature of logic; that makes him more predictable once you understand his mindset."

"That's the point. We _don't_ understand it."

Umber had grinned. "I believe I do. You say he's empty, and that's true. He's a hollow shell, cold logic in a human hide. Each and every other recruit – each and every of _us_, even – has a past and a name they learn to conceal and emotions they learn to control. But this one... this one has none of it. The others must be taught to reshape themselves when needed; he is emptiness ready to be filled with something. And that something can be _anything_ we wish. Let me train him," he had added, causing his superior to blink.

"Train him? You? But you don't usually-"

"I'd like to make an exception, sir. Once his basic training is done with, let me supervise the rest. I'll make the perfect weapon out of him. He'll be a masterpiece."

_My masterpiece_.

His superior had stared at him for a few moments before letting out another sigh. "Very well. If he's found fit to pass on to further training, he'll be yours to deal with. Just make sure this... toy of yours doesn't turn around to bite your hand. Is that clear?"

Umber had smiled. "Crystal."

"ENOUGH!"

The shot coming from the yard snaps him from his reminiscing. Umber looks down to see that the fight is over at last, one of the opponents on the ground and holding his bleeding nose. He doesn't stay on the ground for long, though: he stands and, with a grimace of pain, goes to stand on the back of the row along with the winner. A gesture of the woman who's supervising them, and two more step forward: a tall young man with dark hair... and Johan.

He and his opponent seem to be rather fairly matched when it comes to size, the other man only slightly taller than him. That's intentional: this is meant to see how they take on someone whose strength roughly matches theirs, after all.

Umber leans a little forward, staring at Johan intently. He's showing nothing at all, as always, and Umber can tell it's because he's _feeling_ nothing at all: nothing there but the cold logic Umber finds so fascinating. He doesn't even move when the other starts circling him, nor he bothers to take a defensive stance of any kind.

He stands there, arms relaxed down his sides and no expression, _waiting_.

And then his opponent charges, kicking up dirt and dust, arm pulled back to deliver a powerful right hook – or at least what would be one if his fist hit its intended target. It doesn't, because just one instant before the impact Johan dodges, snake-quick and not having even bothered to bring up his hands for defense; had he been just a fraction slower, the punch would have smashed in his unprotected face.

He was too confident to even doubt for a moment that he would be able to dodge the blow, Umber realizes, and smirks to himself. Confident, and fearless. He doesn't feel fear. He feels _nothing_.

_Our monster._

His opponent must have expected him to dodge, and he's remarkably quick to turn and try to reach for his neck, using the failed blow's momentum to try catching Johan in a choke-hold without making himself vulnerable to a counter-attack. But that attempt fails, too: he's fast, but Johan is _faster_. He dodges the second strike as well... and then the next, and the one after that.

Soon enough, it's clear that Johan has no intention to try striking back just yet. He keeps dodging each and every attempt at hitting him, barely breaking a sweat; his opponent may as well be trying to hit mist. It's not blind luck, Umber can tell as much: Johan can read his opponent just as well a Umber can. A tilt of the head, a subtle glance, a shift of weight – all telltale signs of what the next move is going to be. They may be invisible to most... but not to him, and not to Johan. Not to cold, calculating Johan; not to someone whose mind isn't touched by the heat of the fight.

Why, he likes the young man more and more by the minute.

It goes on for a little longer, any attempt at hitting Johan failing one after the other as he almost dances right out of reach. If his opponent is growing frustrated, he's good at hiding it; he's good, Umber has to admit, but will need more training to make him stop giving his moves away so clearly before he even strikes.

But he isn't devoid of cunning, and his next move makes it clear: the man steps back with his right foot, his left fist pulling down low for an uppercut aimed up under Johan's jaw. An easy enough blow for Johan to sidestep... except that it is a trap: it doesn't escape Umber's trained eye how his _other_ arm pulls back slightly, fist tightening. He instantly knows that if Johan steps on his right he'll be blindsided by a vicious right hook on the side of the head.

Except that he doesn't: instead of stepping aside he drops in a crouch just as his opponent's right fist moves. The punch goes well over Johan's head; the momentum drags his opponent in a half-turn, balance broken, his right arm still outstretched – and that's when Johan finally _strikes_, quick as a snake. He springs back up and, in the blink of an eye, his right hand has grabbed his opponent's wrist just as his _other_ arm shoots up to hit the outstretched arm from below – right on the elbow.

The resulting cracking noise is perfectly audible even from the balcony Umber is standing on, and is immediately followed by a howl of pain. As his opponent collapses, holding his right arm and crying out, Johan simply steps back and stares down at him in silence, no expression at all on his face.

Perfect, Umber thinks as he quickly walks down the stairs to reach the training grounds – where the man's cries are now covered by the instructor's yells on how he wasn't supposed to break anyone's arm during this training. A bit too much whining for Umber's tastes: an arm can heal, and at the moment he's too pleased by what he has seen to give it any thought.

Not a single hit taken, no hesitation: one strike, one broken elbow and a finished fight.

It's _perfect_.

"I was told we were to incapacitate our opponent. You said nothing on how we should achieve that," Johan is saying flatly as Umber walks up to them, not unfazed by the cries, the angry yells or the looks he's getting.

"He has a point there," Umber speaks up before the instructor can, reaching out to put a hand on Johan's shoulder. "If they didn't receive clear instructions, that is your failure. But what's done is done, don't you think?" he adds with a friendly smile. "Get the poor guy at the infirmary and carry on with the training. I'll take him with me for a while. Hope you don't mind," Umber says.

He doesn't wait for a reply, nor he bothers to pay any of them more attention: he simply starts walking away, gesturing for Johan to follow. And he does follow him, sure enough. For a few minutes they only keep walking and say nothing.

"You did well," Umber finally speaks up when they're far enough from anyone's ears. He turns to look straight at the younger man, who looks right back at him with no expression: he acknowledges the praise with a nod, and that's it. "Where did you learn?"

"Nowhere in particular. I learned."

"It must have been useful when you killed people for money."

"Not very often. I avoided fights. I'd usually try to get the deed done before they realized I was even there."

"The mercy of a quick death?"

"Less of a hassle for me."

Umber chuckles. "I should have known," he says. There is no place for a concept like _mercy_ in this one's mind. His gaze falls once again on the bullet scar on his forehead. "You told me you don't remember being shot," he finally says. "That the very first memory you have is of is waking up in a hospital."

"Yes."

"Where?"

"I already gave you that information."

"Not to me directly. Do so now, if you'll be so kind," Umber says pleasantly. He knows what the answer is, but he wants to hear it from him – directly. He remembers being told that Johan had some trouble answering the question when asked and needed to think it over for a while... as though he had nearly forgotten.

Johan nods, and speaks after what seems a moment's hesitation. "It was in Burgundine. Borginia's capital."

"I see. Approximately ten years ago, you said. You were about fifteen at the time, were you not?"

"So it was estimated."

Umber nods and reaches to grasp Johan's chin. "Let me take a good look at you, will you?" he says, tilting his head up, towards the sun. His grip is strong enough to hurt, but Johan doesn't give any sign of being bothered: he simply narrows his eyes against the sun's glare and keeps still as the man's eyes carefully scan his face and then stop – yet again – on the bullet scar on his forehead.

His gaze stays there for a few moment before moving back down to the rest of the face. It's a rather generic face, to be sure... but then there are the eyes, a pale blue that's like dirty ice. They convey nothing now, no emotion, but it wasn't _always_ like this. Oh no.

A voice, that of a long dead man who didn't last very long in the business, rings out somewhere in the back of Umber's mind.

_Who the hell is he?_

_No one, _he had said back then.

_A monster, _he thinks now. No name, no past, no emotions – all of it stripped from him with the pull of a trigger and the blast of a gun. One moment and whoever he had been was gone, leaving _this_ behind.

_His monster_.

Umber was never one to believe in much of anything, let alone in fate, but he has to admit that he's almost tempted to believe in it now. Perhaps it's only fitting that he lived so that their paths would cross again, so that _he_ would be the one to fill that void with something.

He gives a shark-like smile and lets go of the younger man's chin. "You have so much more potential than you ever realize," he says, the smile not leaving his lips. "We'll get on well, you and I. I'll supervise your training personally soon enough. Try not to kill any of the other recruits until then."

Johan stares back at him blankly, nothing indicating that he realizes that was a joke; no amusement at all shows. "I have no reason to," is all his says, his voice blank. It barely sounds human.

Umber quite likes the sound of it.

* * *

"So we went from impersonating a married couple to impersonating a pair of co-workers who _also_ happened to be lovers. I've got to wonder if the bigwigs are trying to tell us something."

The Phantom snorts, brow furrowed in concentration as he keeps working on his watch with the tiniest screwdriver he could get his hands on. When she asked what the problem was, he only muttered something on how his old one was better and wouldn't break so often. "It was convenient, that is all," he says. "We'll take two different positions that will allow us access to key information, and we won't have to worry about any _lover_ realizing we're not them. Don't go looking for hidden meanings where there is none."

She laughs. "Man, you're a story and a half. You wouldn't recognize a joke if it tackled you."

He hums, but he doesn't take his gaze away from his work. He's been even less talkative than usual later, but then again they've both been busy learning all they could about the people whose place they'll have to take. The Phantom's next persona, one Harrison Fire, is the chief of staff of YggdraCorp. Very convenient for them, since he'll be in the right position to access to plenty of information... but it also means that the amount of things he must learn to know all about in a short time is staggering.

There is no doubt in the Yatagarasu's mind that he can do it – she's been working with him for two years now and she knows exactly what he's capable of – but it's no wonder that it took him quite some work.

Her role should be easier: Mary Goround is a lab technician, and unlikely to be closely observed by those who matter... but those most pay no attention to are often the one who can better access to vital information.

The Yatagarasu gives a quick glance at her notes, but she puts them down almost right away. She doesn't think there's anything she's missing, but if there is... well, there is one way to find out quickly. She leans back against the couch. "So. Favorite food?" she asks aloud.

The Phantom doesn't look up at her, but he replies without missing a beat. He's gotten used to those sudden questions about the person whose identity he's about to take, and he always counters with more questions.

"Grilled T-Bone beef steak. Medium rare, potatoes on the side. Eggs sunny-side up and bacon for breakfast," he says flatly. "Favorite movie?" he counters.

"The Butterfly Effect. You graduated from...?"

"Ivy University, 2011. Favorite drink?"

She grins. "Vodka martini. Shaken, not stirred."

"Incorrect."

"Aw, c'mon. Give me points for the reference."

"No. Favorite drink?" he repeats dully, not taking his eyes off the watch. She sighs.

"Strawberry Caipiroska. Dr Pepper when no alcohol is available. Have I already told you you're no fun?"

"Is that your next question?"

She blinks at him. "... Was that an attempt at joking?"

The Phantom doesn't lift his eyes from the watch. Picks up another tool. ".. No."

She laughs and pats his shoulder, causing the tool he was holding to fall from his hand, and ignores his glare. "You're actually growing a sense of humor! Or is that _LaRoche's_ sense of humor coming back?"

"Your imagination is far too active for your own good. Either use it to ask more questions or quit wasting my time," he says coldly, finally putting down the second tool and picking up the watch again.

She sighs again. She knows there _is_ a sense of humor somewhere in there – LaRoche had some, even if it was mostly sarcasm – but the Phantom seems determined to pretend it's not there at all. "Health issues?"

"None of much importance. Allergic to fur," he says. "Speaking of which – pets?"

"The Yatagarasu absentmindedly glances out of the window. "A ferret named Dumpster and a couple of canaries. Kept well out of the ferret's reach, of course. Bet that if your ex had a ferret he'd have to keep _it_ safe from that hawk of his, huh?"

There are a few moments of complete silence as the Phantom simply stares at her. His expression is absolutely flat, but his eyes flicker for a moment before he speaks again. "I can't see how any of it is relevant," he says, and she can tell he's _willing_ his voice to stay perfectly controlled; bringing up Blackquill never fails to get that reaction.

She grins. "Come to think of it, you never say anything over me calling him your ex."

"Because the mere notion is too asinine to deserve an answer. You don't see _me_ assuming there was anything going on with Prosecutor Faraday."

_Faraday_.

She hasn't thought of Byrne Faraday in years, and the thought of him catches her unprepared – and it _stings_, it really does. And the Phantom noticed, she can tell as much, because he's looking straight at her and his blank gaze has changed into a more intent one.

"Pfft, hahahaha! Look at you, so serious all of a sudden," she laughs, but he just blinks at her, and she can tell he can see right through the act; she let her guard down, and he didn't miss it.

Suddenly, this isn't funny anymore.

"I killed him, in case you missed it," she says, her voice suddenly colder. She wants him to stop staring at her; it's unnerving, if anything because nothing in his expression is giving her any indication of what he may be thinking. "Stabbed him through the heart."

"Which is why I never implied anything," the Phantom says, his voice flat. "You had your orders, after all. You followed them. It's not like you had a choice in the matter."

A smile curls her lips, but this time it's a bitter one. "Yes. No choice," she murmurs.

"_This has to end. The Yatagarasu has to end. Faraday is the real threat; it is him you have to get out of the way. Afterward, you'll return here. We'll give you a new identity and place you somewhere else." _

"_This isn't necessary. I'm certain I can retrieve the key and make both Faraday and Badd direct their suspects elsewhere. There is no reason why we cannot-"_

"_I'm afraid that it's up to me, and me alone, to decide which steps are necessary and which are not. And, things being as they are, my order is to end Mann before he can testify, retrieve the key, kill Faraday and make your 'Calisto Yew' persona disappear. These are my orders. So, before I give you further instruction, do tell me – are you going to obey, or are you not?"_

"_... Yes. I am."_

A long silence follows. The Phantom doesn't say a word – but he doesn't look away, either, and she finds herself speaking again almost without realizing it. "That old fool. Faraday didn't need to die. I tried to tell Alba as much, but he wouldn't listen. I could have kept the Yatagarasu going on for _years_."

"... You would have wanted that, wouldn't you?"

Another bitter smirk. "Would you have wanted to keep working with Blackquill with Fulbright's mask?"

The Phantom looks back down at the dissembled watch. "You know the answer to that."

There is another brief silence before she speaks again. "I liked it where I was," she says slowly. "Faraday and Badd... what a pair of utter fools they were. But they trusted me. They weren't half bad, really. We... had a nice time. I had a good time in the Interpol, too. Agent Lang – that idiot – trusted me just as much as Faraday and Badd did. Hah. Good thing I didn't have to kill him too, huh?" she adds, but this time she doesn't even bother to force on a smile. The Phantom is not even looking at her anyway. "... It was exciting, too. Sometimes, if I tried hard enough, I could pretend it was real. I'm sure you could, too."

The Phantom's jaw clenches for a moment. "And it nearly cost me my life. It wasn't real, and it could never be. I was the lie. _You_ were the lie. We can't allow ourselves to forget that."

"Pffft...!"

The laughter that comes unbidden to her lips feel good, real good. It's almost liberating, and she can even believe that what's prickling her eyes are tears of mirth. "Hahaha! Oh man. You're hilarious, you know," she says, and laughs again, slapping a hand on his shoulder. "I like you. I sure hope I won't have to kill you someday!"

The Phantom looks up at her, then his lips curl as well in the shadow of a smile. "You should hope so, yes. I'm rather hard to kill."

"Oh, I know. You probably cost a sniper his job. And an assassin didn't get his fee, from what I heard. Don't even get me started on the guy who got killed because he failed to kill you with poison!"

"... Shall I write them a formal apology?"

The Yatagarasu laughs again, and this time it's out of genuine amusement. The Phantom doesn't laugh – she managed to make him laugh along with her only once, and even then it was a very bitter laugh – but he doesn't make remarks, either, and she knows that's about as good as it gets.


	5. YggdraCorp

_A/N: so I got some free time and actually managed to write a chapter in a week. Wow. It's been so long since last time I was able to do that_. XD

* * *

"... I must have hurt you."

Blackquill's voice is barely above a murmur, but it's enough to snap LaRoche out of his comfortable, trance-like state. He forces himself to open his eyes, but doesn't lift his head from Blackquill's chest.

"It matters not," he says, gaze fixed against the wall of his cell. There was pain, no point in denying it, but it truly doesn't matter: he's no stranger to pain, and they certainly couldn't call for a guard and tell them to fetch some lubricant. Pain was a more than acceptable price for what he could have tonight.

Tonight, and never again. Because come morning, Robert LaRoche will have to die once again – and the ghost that will be left will never again cross paths with Simon Blackquill.

The thought is like a spear of ice through his chest. He can feel Blackquill's own chest rising beneath his head as he draws in a long breath, as though he's about to speak, but LaRoche doesn't want to listen to anything he may say, doesn't want to listen to anything but Blackquill's heartbeat and breathing. He lifts his head and presses his mouth against Blackquill's throat, speaking first.

"It matters not," he repeats against his skin. "I'm about to die. This was the only... this once. Only _this once_."

_You did nothing I didn't wish you to_.

Blackquill stays still for a moment, then he exhales and reaches to hold him back, pressing LaRoche's head back down on his shoulder. LaRoche shuts his eyes when Blackquill's fingers tangle in his hair, the coldness in his chest a stark contrast to the warmth of skin on skin. The thought of losing that warmth is unbearable, but there is nothing he can do to keep it from happening. LaRoche will die, and Blackquill will move on. That's how it must go, he tells himself. That's how he _wants_ it to go.

But that's not true; that's simply the only option he has aside from death. The thought of leaving Blackquill and his _identity_ behind for good pains him beyond words. He doesn't want to, doesn't want to _go_.

_What I want has ceased to matter a long time ago_.

"... Blackquill," he calls out, and feels the embrace tightening just a fraction before Blackquill speaks.

"What is it?" is all he asks, his voice very quiet.

For a moment LaRoche almost bites back the plea that desperately wants to leave him. He knows that's not what he should ask for, that the whole _point_ of facing execution and letting Robert LaRoche die is to allow Blackquill to move on – to give him back the life he stole from him seven years ago.

_Don't turn back_, he should tell him... but he can't find it in himself to.

"Don't forget me," LaRoche finally manages, and he doesn't even care that his voice is trembling and that tears are leaking from beneath his closed eyelids on Blackquill's skin. He could shut out those emotions, but he doesn't want to. Robert LaRoche is a human being, not a phantom; Robert LaRoche is about to die and he's allowed to be scared, he's allowed to be _weak_. "Please, _please_, don't forget me."

Blackquill pulls his hand away from LaRoche's hair and sits up, keeping LaRoche close with one arm – but his other hand reaches to grasp his chin and tilt up his face. LaRoche opens his eyes to find himself staring straight at Blackquill. It's hard to see his expression in the dimly lit cell, but he can tell that Blackquill is looking at him intently, perhaps memorizing features that, LaRoche knows, will soon be erased.

The thought makes him feel even colder. His breath hitches, and he feels tear rolling down his cheeks. If Blackquill sees them he doesn't say: he only presses his mouth on LaRoche's, hard.

"Never," he says against his lips, his own voice so filled with raw emotion that it's almost painful to listen. But it feels good, if horribly bitter, to hear that – because it's a promise, and one thing LaRoche knows for sure is that Simon Blackquill never breaks his word.

LaRoche presses closer to him and wills himself to forget reality for just a while longer.

* * *

"_Never."_

Blackquill's voice sounds oddly loud in his empty bedroom, and so does the bitter laugh that follows. "Never," he repeats, sitting up on the bed. He reaches up to run a hand over his face; his skin feels cold and damp with sweat. "I'll never forget. May you be damned, how _could_ I? You haunt my dreams still."

It's not always like this; he can go on weeks without a single thought of LaRoche. But sometimes a memory strikes, sudden and unexpected, and it hurts every single time.

Perhaps it was the meeting with Lang that caused this: the little Lang said about this spy who infiltrated the Interpol long ago – Shih-na was her last known alias, apparently – was enough for him to know that, to Lang, this woman is what the Phantom has been to him. It was plain he wanted nothing more than catching the one who betrayed him so utterly, and Blackquill can understands that better than anyone. The sense of kinship was only strengthened when Chief Prosecutor Edgeworth told him something more about Lang's target.

"She infiltrated this very courthouse, almost nineteen years ago. She worked for an international smuggling ring at the time," Edgeworth had told him. "She posed as a defense attorney, and murdered a fellow prosecutor she worked with. It's a long story," he had added when he had noticed Blackquill's confusion over a defense attorney working _with_ a prosecutor. "The point is, Prosecutor Faraday was a threat to the smuggling ring she worked for. He trusted her, and she paid back that trust with a knife through the heart. I was but a rookie at the time, but I was able to prove her guilt. However, she escaped. When we met again seven years later, she was posing as someone else – and she was Agent Lang's trusted assistant."

Yes, Blackquill thinks now, that must be it: the parallels he's picked up between the spy Lang seeks and the Phantom must be what caused LaRoche to enter his dreams again.

Blackquill throws the covers aside and stands, walking out of the room and into the bathroom. He doesn't bother to turn on the light: he's come to know his new apartment like he knew his cell in these past two years, and he _does_ have a tendency to awaken at night. In such moments, sudden light hurts his eyes.

Blackquill splashes some cold water on his face before closing the tap and looking at the mirror in the faint light coming from the window. He doesn't look quite like he did before his long imprisonment, but some of the marks prison left on him have faded: his is skin less pale, the marks under his eyes almost entirely gone. His hair is short as it was _before_, too: he rid himself of the unruly mane he had grown in prison shortly after LaRoche's execution. But the white hair is still there, as are the marks on his wrists, unlikely to ever fade out.

Blackquill reaches to touch his right wrist, his mouth a grim line. He remembers clearly how Fulbright – the man he believed to be Fulbright – would always be the one to take them off and then put them back on in the one year they worked together. He left that duty to no one else, and Blackquill sometimes wonders if that was a trait Fulbright had – getting so invested in those he was responsible for to the point of becoming downright possessive – or if something of the Phantom leaked through the mask.

But it doesn't matter, Blackquill tells himself, and pulls his hand away from his wrist; he never asked, and he certainly cannot ask now that he's gone. Still, it's almost ironic to think of it, of how he returned the favor by being the one to close the cuffs around LaRoche's wrists for the last time before he was led to the gallows.

_This is the last time you'll have to wear these._

_Heh. Somehow, I fail to find that comforting._

_I know,_ he had said, and he had reached down to grab LaRoche's hands. They were cold, he remembers, as though death had claimed him already. _One moment and it will be over. Don't be afraid._

But he _was_ afraid: anyone could see that, let alone Blackquill. Still, LaRoche had said it didn't matter.

_It's... it means I'm human, doesn't it?_

_Yes. It means you're human._

_Thank you. For... for giving me a name, for making me someone. Thank you for for not giving up on me._

"... Fool," Blackquill mutters to the empty room, his eyes shut. "Did knowing your name make any difference for you once you crossed the Styx?"

He wouldn't have wondered as much, once: he would have thought of death as something final that would make one's name and identity useless. But he's long since changed his mind on that. It would be hard not to after witnessing what he witnessed, after meeting Metis Cykes once again seven years after her death.

Maya Fey had volunteered to channel LaRoche as well to let them talk one last time, actually, like she did for Justice and his friend, but Blackquill had declined the offer. Robert LaRoche was gone, and unlike Metis Cykes and Clay Terran he hadn't been unexpectedly murdered: they had known his execution was coming, and they could tell each other all they needed to tell, all that _mattered_ enough to tell. It had been enough.

LaRoche is gone, and so is the phantom he has chased for seven long years; he's at peace, or so Blackquill hopes, and he needs to let go of him. He has managed, for the most part; he can only hope that, in time, LaRoche's phantom will cease plaguing his dreams.

* * *

"Look, Phantom of the Courthouse, I don't mean to be tiresome, but-"

"You _are_ being tiresome."

"This could become a problem. You _know_ that." The sudden sharp edge in her voice is what causes the Phantom to pause, his hand stilling an inch away from the glass of water. It's only a moment's hesitation, though: the next moment he simply pops the pill in his mouth and swallows it with a mouthful of water.

"I can't see how it could be of hindrance. It's simply one pill each evening. No one will see me taking it."

The Yatagarasu rolls her eyes, leaning back against the kitchen's door. She's wearing a ridiculous pajamas with miniature scales printed all over it, which is a sharp contrast to her unusually serious tone. "Don't play dumb. It's not _one_ pill anymore. You doubled the dose, and it's still not enough. You had two already, and one more now. I heard you getting up; you could have bothered to put on some pants instead of just walking around in your underwear, by the way. Didn't you say memories never come back twice the same night?"

The Phantom doesn't try to argue that point. Dream suppressants seem to be failing lately; he dreamed, sure enough, but this time it wasn't a memory of his childhood to come back – it was a much more recent one.

_Don't forget me._

_Never_.

"I still fail to see the issue," he finally says. "No one will need to see me take the pills. Even if they do, I can pass it off as any kind of medication. Harrison Fire is not immune to migraines, after all."

She shakes her head. "That drug isn't even officially _approved_. It's still experimental. There is no data at all about possible side effects; let alone long term ones."

"While your concern for my health is _moving_, I have to inform you it's none of your business."

"Pffft... Hahahaha! Oh man," she laughs, bringing a hand up to her mouth. "You... Hahah! You're so _dense_! You really don't get this teamwork thing, do you?" she says, and snickers some more before turning reasonably serious again. "As long as we work together, it _is_ my concern. If you're compromised-"

"I won't be," the Phantom cuts her off, putting the glass back down. "If I get, for the sake of argument, _compromised_, you already have your orders. Don't you?"

She stares at him for a moment before nodding. "Of course. And so do you."

"Obviously," is the flat reply. The orders are simple: if either of them is compromised and at risk of being caught, the other's orders are very simple – _kill_. "If I'm compromised, if I become a problem, kill me. It's nothing you haven't done before," he adds. It's a calculated blow, especially since they spoke of Byrne Faraday mere hours earlier, and her jaw clenches for a moment before she laughs.

"Hahaha! Like you'd let me! Or maybe you would?" she adds, tilting her head on one side with a smirk. "What would you pick – death, or facing Blackquill again once your disappearing trick has been revealed?"

Something in the Phantom's chest clenches, but he refuses to let it show. Part of him expected a similar remark the very moment he delivered his; the Yatagarasu isn't one to take a low blow without returning it. "But it's nothing you should concern yourself about, because I _won't_ be compromised," he says. "You can quit worrying and focus on the role you'll take on from tomorrow morning," he adds.

From here on, their instructions are simple enough: they're to don their masks and show at YggdraCorp as Harrison Fire and Mary Goround respectively, ready to take on their jobs right away. Both of them have been taken into custody over the weekend, and both of them have been questioned. They have spoken, of course – they were made to speak, though the Phantom doesn't quite care to know by what means – and it has become clear that yes, YggdraCorp is involved with unethical human experiments in several countries.

Neither of them knew the details or the purpose; information between departments was strictly controlled even within YggdraCorp itself. But then again, that's why they're going to take their places: to find out _more_.

The Yatagarasu grins. "What, afraid I'll mess up? I'm hurt. And here I believed I thought higher of me."

"I probably would if that laughter of yours didn't nearly blow our cover in Zheng Fa last year."

Predictably, she laughs at the remark. "Haha! Still sulking over that? Nothing happened. You should give me more credit: I lasted years in the Interpol, and no one knew. Lang trusted me blindly, while I'm pretty sure Blackquill never let _Fulbright_ even see your psych profile in the year you posed as him," she adds, and smirks when the Phantom's frame stiffens.

_B-B-But I thought you believed me…?!_

_Silence! Ha ha ha ha ha! Oh, how you amuse me so!_

_Simon was only pretending to believe Detective Fulbright… he knew I'd notice if there was a lack of emotions, like joy or relief, in his response._

"... Lang must have been quite the trusting fool," is all the Phantom mutters before walking past her and out of the kitchen. She doesn't say anything, nor she tries to follow him, and it's a relief.

He longs for darkness and silence and dreamless sleep before he takes over someone else's life once again.

* * *

"This is quite the canary you've got."

Blackquill's lips curl in a faint smirk almost against his own will. Normally, he wouldn't allow anyone to call Taka a canary without being cut down, or getting to taste his hawk's talons. But, he has to admit, it isn't truly bothered by Lang's use of the word – especially since Taka doesn't seem to mind, either, and lets Lang scratch the back of his head. That's quite a sight: Taka's trust is even harder to gain then Blackquill's own, and he can't think of anyone who's allowed to pet him aside from himself and sometimes Athena.

_Fulbright could_.

The thought is like a sudden, cold shower. That much is true: for quite a while the only other person who could touch Taka aside from himself was Fulbright. It wasn't _Fulbright_, of course, it never was, but Fulbright was the one Taka had come to know – to the point he wouldn't even recognize the man who once fed him once the mask was down. LaRoche told him as much, in this very office.

_I was told he still shows at the clink from time to time. They told me he come to rest on your cell's window._

_Yes, it happens from time to time. I assume he still thinks you'll be found there. He never stays much, though. He... doesn't recognize me_.

Blackquill chases the memory away, ignoring the bitterness it never fails to cause, and turns his attention back to Lang. "Taka doesn't usually let strangers touch him. Do you have experience with falconry?"

The question seems to amuse Lang for some reason. "Hah! I'm afraid not. I'm more of a dog person myself. But I can appreciate a fine predator," he adds, smoothing down the feathers on Taka's back before turning to Blackquill and walking up to his desk. "Speaking of predators, here's something you'll like – we have permission to access to the YggdraCorp's headquarters here in LA any time we see fitting," he says, and grins. "Will you be joining me this afternoon?"

His expression is that of a man who knows what answer he should expect, and Blackquill has no intention to disappoint him. "Hmph. Like you need to ask," he says. "That was remarkably quick."

Lang nods. "Lang Zi says: before aiming for the throat, chew the neck shield off," he says. "There would be no advancing the investigation if we didn't get through their refusal to cooperate first. Thankfully, the Interpol could put enough pressure on the CEO; she must have realized that refusing would make them seem even more suspicious. Of course, officially we're only looking into Stand Doff's death and past."

Blackquill isn't surprised to hear that. With no real proof of wrongdoing from their part, Interpol must be very careful not to expose what they know, what their investigation is truly about. If YggdraCorp is indeed involved in something illegal they'll obviously try to hide it, but it's for the best that they don't know how much _they_ know. "You're leading them to believe you suspect Doff, and not the company, of wrongdoing."

"Precisely. How much they really believe that is debatable; people with a dirty conscience are more alert than a hare in a field, ready to spot dangers where there is none. But you shouldn't concern yourself with any of this," he adds. "Lang Zi says: a wolf who aims to hunt for two rabbits at once is bound to fail. I'm rather certain the same applies to birds of prey."

"In other words, you wish me to focus on the investigation on Stan Doff's death and leave the rest to you."

Agent Lang nods. "Yes. Don't get me wrong – if you happen to find relevant information, do share," he says with a laugh. "My pack is far from picky. And, as a certain prosecutor taught me, truth can find the most unexpected ways to make itself known. But we have different goals, you and I; you have a murder to look into, while I'm out to find out the truth behind whatever business YggdraCorp is involved into... and to track down a certain venomous snake who made the mistake of hiding in my very bosom for years."

"The two things are very likely to be connected," Blackquill points out. He finds it rather preposterous to assume otherwise. Lang himself pointed out as much, after all.

"They are certainly connected," Lang concedes. "Which is why I'll hold back no information from you should we find any. But, for the moment, I think it's best we focus on our respective cases at hand. Even though, at least officially, we're on the same case."

Blackquill can definitely see his point. He nods. "Very well. I'll focus on everything concerning Stan Doff and let you know what I uncover. I believe a talk with YggdraCorp's chief of staff is in order. Even though Mr. Doff had his own office elsewhere, he still worked for the company. Its chief of staff is bound to have at least some information."

Lang smirks. "Sounds good. I'll have a nice talk with the CEO and see what my men can find around. I'm sure working with you is going to be interesting. I'm curious to see what you're made of on the field," he adds. "Mr. Pros- the Chief Prosecutor speaks very highly of you. I look forward to be impressed."

"I look forward to deliver, then," Blackquill says, and he means it. If Stan Doff was truly involved with experimenting on human beings, he certainly deserved his fate – but his murderer must still be caught, and Blackquill will leave no stone unturned to find our precisely what happened to him.

* * *

"An Interpol investigation?"

Surprise is not something the Phantom needs to fake just know, very much unlike the voice and mannerism: that of the Interpol being onto YggdraCorp is news to him as it would be to the real Harrison Fire. How could he _not_ know such crucial information beforehand? The government certainly would know if the Interpol was investigating on a company on American soil; why was no such information passed on to him or the Yatagarasu? Has there been a mistake, a miscommunication of some sort? Or perhaps they knew too late to pass on the information to them on time?

Either way, they certainly have had rotten luck this time around: this is quite the hassle to land in on their first day impersonating those two.

Entirely unaware of the Phantom's thoughts, the woman – Ann Tylor Dote, renewed researcher back in her youth and now CEO of YggdraCorp – nods. She's sitting at her desk, chin resting on her folded hands as the looks at her company's chief of staff: a man with pale skin, rusty red hair and dark eyes, impeccably dressed as always. "Precisely," she says calmly. Nothing in her posture and mannerism shows the slightest amount of concern. "In relation to Mr. Doff's _tragic_ death, apparently."

Stan Doff. The Phantom briefly searches his mind for information connected to that name, and finds it readily. Harrison, the real Harrison, said he was murdered – by the CEO's order. He had said he had been meddling with things he shouldn't have meddled with, apparently trying to double-cross them in some way, but he hadn't known the details. That's annoying, but very convenient right now: the less details Harrison Fire knew, the less the Phantom needs to remember now.

But then again... "His murder was a local matter. The Interpol's involvement must mean there is more to it," Harrison Fire says in a slow, calculated voice.

Dote nods, reaching up to run a hand through her hair. It's iron gray now, but it used to be black. "That much is certain. We know the Interpol found the facility in Reijam shortly after it was abandoned. The spies who forced us to abandon that place seem to have done us a favor, whoever they were," she adds with a smirk. "Hadn't it been for them, the Interpol may have found our men still in... along with quite some damning evidence. We'll make sure to thank them before they die should they meddle with our business again."

Harrison nods. He knows – because the _other_ Harrison knows – that, while they still have no real clue who was it to infiltrate their facility in Reijam, they have hired someone to be on the lookout should they show up again. If he could allow himself feel amusement right now, the Phantom could consider it quite amusing: they're already _there_ and no one has the slightest clue.

"Are you certain our man is trustworthy?" Harrison asks. The _real_ Harrison Fire had some misgivings on the man the company had hired to look out for more spies, he knows. He isn't a very trusting man, and apparently this man used to be a spy himself. He knows nothing more about this person, though: Dr. Dote didn't share many details on the matter with her chief of staff.

The CEO chuckles. "We're not going over this again, Harrison. It takes a spy to catch a spy, after all. He was supposed to be here today, but I'd rather get the Interpol off our back first. Them, and our local police. This annoying prosecutor wouldn't take a no for an answer, and the Interpol forced me to let him in as well," Dr. Dote adds with a sigh. "But it matters not. I'll deal with the Interpol; you'll talk with this Simon Blackquill and tell him we know nothing- Harrison?" she calls out, frowning slightly. "Is everything alright?"

_No._

"... My apologies. I skipped breakfast this morning; my low blood pressure didn't take it well," the Phantom – Harrison Fire – says with an apologetic smile. "I'll grab something from a vending machine."

_Not Blackquill, not him, not him of all people. This wasn't supposed to happen_, is all he can think. _It shouldn't have happened, should never have happened. I can't do this, I can't face him, I can't-_

The Phantom forces himself to end that line of thought, forces himself to shut down all emotion – _all_ of it – before he starts screaming, or laughing, or crying... or all of it at once.

_Control. Mind over matter. Mind over matter_.

_I am no one. I am nothing but an endless abyss._

_There is nothing inside as long as I will it. Nothing._

Dr. Date nods, clearly amused and entirely unaware of the turmoil that's been going on behind the mask. "Do that. It would certainly make the wrong impression if you fainted before this Blackquill. Last thing I need to deal with are accusations of working you into exhaustion."

Harrison Fire gives a polite laugh, as expected of him, and promises he'll have breakfast before dealing with Blackquill.

Pity that he needs to keep his mind clear, because some alcohol to go with said breakfast would be much appreciated right now.

* * *

"What does it _mean_, an Interpol investigation?"

Her tone of voice usually ranging from 'high' to '_very_ high', it takes the Yatagarasu some effort to keep her voice low. The room she's in is empty, sure enough – no one is back from the lunch break yet, and Mary Goround is the hard-working type who often skips it – but one can never be too sure.

"Just what it sounds like it means," the Phantom's voice – well, not really _his_ now, is it? – comes from the receiver built in her watch. "Apparently, the Interpol found the facility in Reijam and somehow made the connection with YggdraCorp. They must be on our same trail. I have no idea why we were not informed, but that changes nothing. Fact stays that the Interpol will be here shortly, along with Blackquill. They should have no reason to talk to you, but that doesn't mean you should be unaware."

"... Are you going to have meet him?"

"I'll have to talk to Blackquill, yes," the Phantom replies. His voice is absolutely flat, no emotion at all showing... but she knows he's shaken, he must be. Having to face Blackquill is perhaps the thing she fears the most in the world; she come to know that very well. "He's here in relation to Stan Doff's murder. I already know what lies I have to feed him on YggdraCorp's behalf. It won't be hard. Besides, I have no choice. There is no way to avoid it without causing suspicion."

"You could get out through the sewers, escape to Eagle Mountain and hide as a nun in Hazakura Temple."

"... Which part of the chief of staff running away would _not_, pray tell, cause suspicion?"

She sighs. "That was a joke. I was trying to make you lighten up," she says, absentmindedly glancing out of the window. She can see the entrance of the building from there... and the car that is now stopping before it. She looks on as the car's door open and a man steps out. A man she knows well. "... Lang," she says.

"What?"

Oh, right. The Phantom is listening to her; she almost forgot for a moment. "Agent Lang. He's coming in."

"_That_ Agent Lang?"

"No, the evil twin."

"I'll assume that was a joke."

"Obviously," she says. There is a moment of silence as the Yatagarasu stares out of the window, watching Shi-Long Lang striding towards the door with Simon Blackquill by his side. He hasn't changed these years, she thinks – he hasn't changed one bit. And somehow it feels _good_ to see him there, even if she knows he may be a pain in the neck and, who knows, maybe even get her. It's like seeing an old friend again. "Ha. Hah. Hahahahaha! Quite the coincidence, huh? Lang and Blackquill at once! Well, isn't this exciting."

"Not quite my choice of words," is the Phantom's flat reply.

She grins. "Oh? And what would your choice of words be?"

"Something along the lines of 'fuck this' and 'why me', I suppose."

"Pfft, hahaha! It's funny to hear you cuss. How do you stay so deadpan while saying everything?"

"At least one of us is amused," the Phantom says drily, and the next moment the communication is cut off.

She sighs, smile slowly fading. Despite all the excitement and thrill – _he's here, Lang of all people is here, what are the odds?_ – she has to admit that there is nothing funny about the thought the Phantom is about to have to face Blackquill again.

Nothing _too_ funny, anyway.

* * *

"You'll be received in a minute, sir. Please make yourself comfortable as you wait."

Blackquill merely nods at the receptionist and goes to sit on one of the black leather couches in the foyer. As he waits – not for long, hopefully; Lang was led to the CEO's office right away – he takes a look around. The place is impressive, but that's no surprise: YggdraCorp is an extremely successful company. Not that Blackquill is impressed: human experiments cross the border between unethical and abhorrent by a fair bit.

"Prosecutor Blackquill, I presume?" a voice calls out. Blackquill turns to see a man walking up to him, a man with rusty red hair and a pale complexion.

He stands and nods at him. "That's correct. And who may you be?" he inquires. The man gives him the aseptic smile Blackquill has come to associate with high ranking corporate executives.

"I'm Harrison Fire, chief of staff. Pleased to make your acquaintance," he adds, holding out his hand. It's a hand which Blackquill has no desire to shake, so he deliberately ignores it. Fire keeps holding it out for a few moments before he lowers it with a small, embarrassed cough. "Er. It's my understanding that you're here in relation to Stan Doff's tragic death. We were all deeply shocked by his passing."

"I can imagine," Blackquill says drily. "We can take this to your office, I presume?"

"Of course. This way," Mr. Fire says, turning and gesturing for him to follow. And follow he does, readying himself to force the truth out of this man if he must. Because he _shall_ have answers – no matter what.


	6. Daytime Nightmares

_A/N: finally, some interaction between Blackquill and the Phantom! It sure took more than expected to get to it. _And I even had to move a scene back by yet another chapter so that this wouldn't get overly long. _I'm starting to think I was wrong when I said this fic was going to be "a lot" shorter than TttP was. Damn._

* * *

"Hey, birdbrain! Look here! Look what I've got!"

Seymour has barely the time to lift his eyes from his book when Robb just _lands_ on the mattress next to him, causing him to yelp. "Hey! Watch it!" he protests. "You'll land on me and break some bone one of these-" he begins, only to trail off when Robb shoves something under his nose. He blinks, rearing back, and his eyes widen when he realizes what it is.

Robb grins widely at his surprise. "Like it? I saw it at the flea market, with the guy who's always selling old coins and jewels and whatnot. He didn't even see me taking it," he boasts. "And I'm pretty sure it's real crystal, too!"

The look of wonder on Seymour's face fades a little, and he looks away from the crystal bird in Robb's cupped hands to look up at him. "You should stay away from that guy," he says. "Didn't you hear that he broke someone's wrists when he caught them stealing from his stall?"

"Hah! He'd have to catch me first," Robb snorts. "I'm too fast for him. And I told you, he didn't even see me. I'm _good_."

"Why did you even take it? It's not your kind of thing."

The question causes Robb to roll his eyes a little. Really, Seymour can be surprisingly dense for someone who's so book smart. "Gee, what do you think? It's for you, stupid," he says, and puts the crystal bird on the still open book on Seymour's lap. "Happy birthday and stuff."

"... Ah," Seymour says, and for a moment he seems at a total loss; Robb is ready to bet he didn't think he'd remember. He reaches to take the crystal bird and holds it in his cupped hands. "For me?" he asks, sounding nothing short of incredulous.

"Can't see any other birdbrain around," Robb says with a shrug, finally moving from his crouching position to sit down properly.

"You shouldn't have...!"

"I do what I want," Robb cuts him off with a grin before he turns slightly more serious and reaches up to rub the back of his neck. "Look, I've been thinking-"

"Thinking? Hang in there, I'll call the press," Seymour says, causing Robb to snort.

"Oh, ha-ha. I'm being serious here!" he retorts, and the smirk that was widening on Seymour's face fades a little. It isn't often that he gets _serious_.

"What is it?"

Robb bites his lower lip before speaking, eyes shifting down on the floor. "I, uh... well. I'm leaving," he says.

That causes Seymour's eyes to widen, mouth falling open. "You... _what_?"

With a shrug and what he hopes is a confident grin, Robb looks back up at him. "Hey, why not? A lot of the others already did. I'm thirteen already. I can be on my own. And we'll be kicked out by the time we're fifteen anyway, so why wait?"

"You're not thirteen _already_. You're _just_ thirteen!" Seymour points out, causing Robb to snort.

"Hey, so are you. You just turned thirteen today, really. I'm older than you are!"

"Except that I'm _not_ thinking of going off to be on my own on the street!" Seymour retorts.

"... Ah," Robb says, dropping his shoulders, and Seymour blinks at the sudden change of attitude.

"What is it?"

Robb clears his throat. "Well, I was... I can be on my own, really. I'm good! I can look after myself. I just was thinking that it wouldn't be fun if I was _really_ on my own, so... yeah, I was thinking... if you'd like to, you know... well..." he tries to grin at Seymour again, but the other boy just keeps staring at him, the crystal bird still held against his chest. "Look, why don't you come with me?" he finally blurts out before he can just run out of courage and just decide to forget about the whole idea.

Seymour blinks, staring at him as though he's just grown antlers. "You can't be serious!" he exclaims, and there is a sudden stab of panic in Robb's chest because he didn't seriously think he could tell him no until now, not really, and he isn't sure what he'll _do_ if he refuses. Go anyway? No, he doesn't really want to be _alone_ out there, but he doesn't really want to stay, either, and... and...!

"I am! Just hear me out," Robb says, holding up his hands. "We'd be fine! We can both get the stuff we need anyway! We do that all the time and we only come back here for dinner and sleep anyway! I also found a place to stay," he adds quickly before Seymour can object. "It's a good place! It could be _our_ place, just for the two of us!"

That causes Seymour to pause, his skepticism giving way to mild curiosity. "What place?"

Robb grins. "It's an old house! The one near the old market, remember? It's abandoned, but in a not too bad state. It's boarded up, but there is this board that can be moved to get inside – and I can put it back in place, too! It doesn't look like it's loose at all! And even if someone gets in, there are a lot of places where we can hide our stuff! Like my slingshot and your books and your bird," he adds, nodding at the crystal bird he just gave him. "We can make it our own place! Like... like a nest or something! We'll just need to get a couple of mattresses and blankets there!" he adds, still giving him no time to object. He's got to convince him, and to convince him he needs to keep talking, to explain why it's a really good idea and they should go through with it. "And we'd come and go as we please! No one to tell us what to do! And... and we can stay up late!"

Seymour bites his lower lip, and Robb has to keep his grin from widening – because he's starting to like the idea, he _knows_ he is, and that means he really has a shot at convincing him.

"Are you... are you sure you want to go?" he finally asks, his voice shaking a little. Robb knows what he's really asking, if he wants to go so badly that he'd leave him behind in the orphanage and go, and he opens his mouth to say yes... only that he _can't_. He wants to leave and do as he pleases, sure, but he doesn't really want to do that alone: he wants Seymour to be with him. For a moment he almost wants to lie, to say that of course he would so that Seymour will get scared of being left behind and come with him... but what if he doesn't? What if he chooses to stay there without him?

Sure, he thinks, he wouldn't... but _what if?_

"... If you come with me," he finally says, and reaches to put an arm around Seymour's shoulders. "C'mon, birdbrain. We'll be fine, and it will be fun."

Seymour seems still hesitant, but now he's smiling a little. He doesn't shake his arm off, and he's still holding the gift he brought him close to his chest. "You really think we'll be fine?"

"I _know_ we'll be fine!" Robb exclaims, now absolutely confident. "We can take on the world, birdbrain. Trust me."

* * *

"You have quite the impressive office."

The Phantom smiles, because this is exactly what Harrison Fire would do: pretend not to have noticed the fact Blackquill sounds anything but impressed and politely thank him.

"Thank you. I'm afraid I often fail to clean up after myself, but the cleaning service does an outstanding job at keeping it clean. You'd be far less impressed if it wasn't for them," he says with a pleasant laugh.

Blackquill hums, hangs his coat and turns his gaze to Fire's desk. It's large, though not as large as the CEO's, and made of metal. "I was almost expecting mahogany," Blackquill says. The Phantom knows him too well not to know what he's doing: trying to gather information about Harrison Fire's personality by observing his workspace. He can handle it, sure enough... but soon Blackquill's attention will focus on him.

He's not looking forward to it, but as he has no choice but put on his best act and _become_ Harrison Fire.

"I was tempted by it, I have to admit," the Phantom – _Harrison_ – says. "But I find it unpractical. I'm inclined to let my coffee fall over more often than I'd like to admit, and wiping the stain off metal is infinitely easier," he adds. Harrison Fire was – _is? Does he still live, or have they ended him? He doesn't know_ – a competent man in his work, but tends to be rather clumsy at everyday tasks. If he's to try putting up an innocent façade, underlining this trait seems only logical. It won't be enough to sway Blackquill, he knows, but it's still something Harrison would likely attempt.

After all, Harrison Fire never met Simon Blackquill until today.

Blackquill hums and turns his full attention back to him. He looks somewhat different from how he did last time the Phantom saw him: his skin is less pale and his hair cut short as it was before imprisonment, the dark marks under his eyes having faded for the most part. The Phantom heard of him from time to time in the past two years, and he knows his career is quite successful.

Of course, he could hardly inquire about his state of mind... but he can tell now that he no longer looks haunted as he did until two years ago. It's as though a weight, one that stayed even after his shackles were removed, was lifted from his shoulders. It's good to see that, to see that he moved on, that letting Robert LaRoche die on the gallows was at least worth something. Painful, in its own way... but its what he wanted, he tells himself as he meets Blackquill's gaze.

His eyes have not changed: dark, hardened gray eyes that are now narrowed at him. Blackquill is not bothering to feign friendliness, but then again the Phantom didn't expect him to. He wonders just how much he knows of what's actually going on with YggdraCorp: for all he knows, he may know even more than he and the Yatagarasu do.

The Phantom keeps Harrison's pleasant expression up and nods towards one end of the office. There are a couple of armchairs and a small leather couch there. "Let's sit down. Do you wish for a drink as we speak?" _I promised this one won't be poisoned_. "I promise I'll be careful not to spill it on you."

Blackquill walks past him and to the couch without so much of a glance. "A glass of brandy, since you so nicely offered," he says, sitting on the couch, and doesn't take his eyes off him as he pulls out two glasses and a bottle of brandy from the liquor cabinet. Acutely aware of Blackquill's gaze on him, the Phantom can't help but think back to the first time they shared a drink... although they didn't quite _share_, did they?

_I see you helped yourself to the liquor cabinet. I was under the impression you were a teetotal._

_Fulbright was._

_And you're not?_

_Apparently not. The more you know. You could have told me sooner you had this in your office. I would have come over a lot more willingl_y.

The memory of that afternoon – the afternoon he almost died after he barely managed to stop Blackquill from following his lead to the underworld – causes something in his stomach to clench, and the Phantom can tell thinking about it was not a wise idea. He tries to chase the memory from his mind, but it's too late, the thought of what happened _next_ already filling his mind.

_Don't. Don't speak, don't... God damn you, don't. I chased you for so long. Stay. Don't go where I can't follow, Fool Bright._

_Who... W-who... am I...?_

_We'll find out. You have my word, we'll find out. We will. Don't die on me. We need to do this._

_Our... last case... together... right?_

_That's right. We'll get to the bottom of it. You have my word_.

And they did, didn't they? Blackquill didn't rest until the Phantom had a name to call his own; he kept his word, and asked for one thing only in return – for Robert LaRoche to face his demise as a man. He had promised he would; he gave his _word_.

A word worth less than nothing.

No, part of him still maintains, Robert LaRoche kept his word. LaRoche died that day; it is the Phantom who lived on. The thought is both comforting and painful, but he still clings to it, willing himself not to think of it as a mere excuse, willing himself not to think of what Blackquill would think of it.

_He'd cut me down here and now if he knew_.

But he will not know. He must not. He can't allow it.

Harrison puts down the bottle and puts up a pleasant smile as he walks up to the armchair and sits after placing Blackquill's glasses on the small table between them. He leans back, as Harrison would, and lifts his own glass the moment Blackquill picks up his.

"Well then. You're here to talk about poor Stan's death. Truly a tragedy. In what way can I help you?" he asks. He knows that is what Blackquill is there to talk about, and Harrison was never the kind of man to let someone else lead a potentially dangerous conversation if he can avoid it.

Blackquill takes a swig of brandy before speaking. "How long has Mr. Doff worked for you?" he asks, not bothering with preambles. He's not doing much to hide his suspicion, either, and it takes him some effort to keep well in mind that it's directed to Harrison Fire and not to the Phantom.

Harrison bites his lower lip as if in thought and glances down at his own glass. "Let me think... about... yes, it would have been nine years next month."

"Did you hire him?"

He shakes his head. "No. I wasn't the chief of staff yet back then. I think the CEO herself hired him. Stan had a most impressive curriculum; I cannot in all conscience fault her choice."

Blackquill's eyes narrow for a moment, but he doesn't press on that point. He's thinking of the Interpol agents who are talking to the CEO right now, no doubt. "You made quite the position for yourself. How long have you been working here?"

"Fifteen years," Harrison replies without missing a beat. "I became the chief of staff some five years ago."

"And you're the one in charge for hiring, aren't you?"

"Among other things and with the CEO's ultimate approval, yes. But, as I said, it was not me to hire Stan. That was a personal choice of the CEO, as far as I know."

"His role was that of R&amp;D supervisor, is that correct?"

"It is."

"And yet he had his office in a separate building. One that did not belong to your company," Blackquill points out. "How come?"

Harrison sighs. "Ah, that was quite the hassle, to be sure," he says. "You see, Stan was brilliant – absolutely brilliant, you have to believe me – but he liked to set his own rules for his work. Not only that, but he kept working as a researcher in plenty of fields. I think he saw himself as a scientist who would work with us, sure enough, but not necessarily _for_ us. Having his own, privately owned office was simply part of his way of working."

That causes Blackquill to further narrow his eyes, which is no surprise: he knows that Stan Doff was murdered, and if he suspects YggdraCorp then it's easy to think that the fact Stan Doff may have been less the dedicated to the company must seem like a possible reason. Still, it's not something Harrison would be able to hide – therefore, the best course of action for him would be explaining it with the least possible animosity. The illusion of a friendly environment won't be enough, the Phantom knows, but it's what Harrison Fire would attempt regardless.

"And the CEO was alright with it all?" Blackquill asks.

Harrison gives a pleasant laugh and takes a swig of his drink before replying. "Just between you and me-"

"Do not mock my intelligence," Blackquill cuts him off, his voice suddenly sharp. For a moment before Blackquill speaks again – just one moment – the Phantom's heart seems to skip a beat. "Whatever is about to leave your mouth is hardly something meant to be between the two of us."

It's not an unexpected outburst, but Harrison doesn't _know_ Blackquill, and therefore he's surprised. He blinks at him a few times before speaking. "Well, true enough. That's just a manner of-"

"_Silence_. Spare me your jabbering and tell me how come the CEO tolerated this sort of behavior – or perhaps she _didn't_, after all?"

Harrison stares at Blackquill, allowing his expression to sour for a moment before bringing back up a polite, aseptic smile. Any attempt at being friendly now would feel forced, and Harrison Fire would want his act to feel as natural as possible.

The _Phantom_ wants his act to feel as natural as possible.

"The CEO could get annoyed from time to time, yes. Why, _I _would get annoyed from time to time," he adds, and lets some warmth back in his smile as though he's bringing back fond memories. "Stan was difficult to work with, I'll give you that. In a company like this, teamwork is everything. I should know. But he wasn't much of a team player. He had his own times, his own rules. But," he adds before Blackquill can speak again, "as I told you, he was brilliant. If YggdraCorp is a leading company in its field, it's partly thanks to him. We put up with his oddities because it was _worth_ it, prosecutor Blackquill. His death was a tragedy _and_ a loss for this company."

There is a sharper edge to Harrison's voice towards the end, one the Phantom knows Blackquill will not miss. Harrison could be pleasant and accommodating as long as he ought to be, but he didn't appreciate being snapped at the way Blackquill did. Not that there are many people who _would_, to be fair.

"Hmph." Blackquill takes another swig of his brandy. "What was he working on before he died?"

"I'm afraid I don't know the details, as I'm not strictly a man of science," he says. "If an utterly unscientific explanation works for you, I can tell he was working on optic nerve repair."

"The optic nerve?"

"Yes. It was part of an ambitious project to create a functioning, fully artificial eye that would look everything like a real one. Once installed in the socket and connected to the optic nerve, it would allow people to regain their sight. As long as the area of the brain designed to elaborate images was not damaged, of course. But he was working on that, too. He was hoping to find a way to chemically reprogram and repair damaged brain areas," he says.

That much is true, he knows that for a fact – although it was a side project that is not... whatever YggdraCorp is _truly_ working on with human subjects. Still, it's what he was told to tell Blackquill. A shame that Harrison Fire wasn't let on the _details_ of what they're exactly working on.

Blackquill gives a lopsided smirk. "A true good Samaritan, wasn't he?" he asks, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Still, the Phantom pretends not to have noticed.

"He was a man of science, and I never said he wasn't a good man. He was simply difficult to get along with."

"Someone got along with him so little they murdered him and left his body to _rot_."

The emphasis on that last word is hardly surprising: the Phantom knows that Stan Doff's body was at an unexplained, advanced state of decay... much like that of the politician back in Reijam, whose trail had led them to YggdraCorp. If he's working with the Interpol, Blackquill must know it... and he must of course have guessed it cannot be a coincidence.

"A truly terrible crime, yes," Harrison says, putting down his glass. "But I'm certain the police will be able to find the murderer, eventually. Stan didn't deserve-"

"Were you aware that Stan Doff was involved with illegal, highly unethical experiments in a country called Reijam?" Blackquill cuts him of, leaning forward slightly – like a bird of prey ready to swoop down on a field rat. Like he looked at _him_ in the courtroom, determined to take him down.

_Silence! Further investigation? More like plotting your escape. But no more! I will bring you to justice myself if I must, here and now!_

He would do that if he knew who he's facing, the Phantom knows, and perhaps it would be for the best – because the thought of living to see what Blackquill would say, what he would _think_ if he knew is unbearable. And as he rears back in shock, sputtering and stammering, the Phantom has to wonder how much of it is truly an act.

"What...? No, that's impossible! Stan's work ethics...!"

"His work ethics were non-existent. Smoke and mirrors, nothing else. There is proof of his involvement with experimentation on human beings in Reijam. He used humans as lab lats, and you _truly_ believed him to be a good Samaritan? How pathetic."

Something in Blackquill's voice causes something in his chest to ache, and for a moment the Phantom forgets the mask he's wearing, forgets it's not _him_ Blackquill's disdain is aimed to – because it would be if he only knew that he still lives, that he was too much of a coward to face death and would sooner keep living a mockery of a life and leave his face and name behind once more.

_How pathetic. You can't even speak without wearing another man's face._

_Ah, but that's the life of an undercover agent for you. My real face has no meaning or value to me at all._

_...Or perhaps it is really the case that you don't even know who you are anymore. What must you see when you look in a mirror, Mr. Phantom? Not an awful lot, I'd wager_.

_No_, the Phantom thinks in sudden terror. _No, no, no, no. I know who I am. I am the Phantom. I was Robert LaRoche. That's who I was. I have a self. I didn't forget. I cannot forget_.

_Robert LaRoche is dead, and you will forget._

_No._

_Your forgot him once already. You forgot Robb. You forgot Seymour. You will forget again_.

_No, I-_

"You forgot me."

The voice is frighteningly familiar, and hearing it feels like a cold shower. The Phantom slowly lifts his gaze to look at Blackquill, but he's no longer there and someone else sits in his place – a boy no older than fifteen with black hair mattered with blood and dark, accusing eyes.

"You left me behind to die and then you forgot all about me," he says, his voice quiet. Some blood drips down from the hole in his head and into his eyes, but he doesn't even blink. "Like I never existed."

It wasn't my fault, the Phantom wants to say. He wants to say he never meant to forget, that his memories were _taken_ from him, that he's sorry he left him behind, that there was nothing he could have done to help him – but none of those words comes out, and Seymour Blaxton speaks again.

"I trusted you, Robb. Why did you let me die?"

_I trusted you_.

_Humans can't truly trust each other, which is exactly why the illusion of trust is so enticing_.

_In justice we trust!_

_We can take on the world, birdbrain. Trust me._

_Robb! Please, come back! Help me, don't leave me here! Robb! NO! Please, don't! Robert! ROB-_

"NO!"

The Phantom screws his eyes shut and inhales, his mind reeling. This isn't happening, this cannot be happening, this is _illogical_. Seymour has been dead for almost thirty years now and there is no way, there is simply _no way_ he's now sitting there before him and-

"_Fire!"_

The Phantom's eyes snap open, and he's taken aback to realize that Blackquill's face is right before his, his hands grasping his shoulders. He looks rather puzzled and somewhat alarmed, and the Phantom realizes just now he cried out loud. His eyes shift through the room, but Seymour – whatever he thought was Seymour – is nowhere to be seen.

He was never there; he couldn't possibly be.

Ignoring the terrifyingly powerful urge to cling to Blackquill, the Phantom draws in a deep breath and pulls away from Blackquill's grasp. "I... my apologies. I forgot myself," he says in a calmer, if still shaky voice. Blackquill seems still puzzled, but he does sit back and Harrison speaks again before he can. He has to explain the outburst – he _needs_ to explain it. Thankfully, the situation is giving him just the right excuse. "I'm just... unsettled. I would have never thought... good grief. Do you truly believe Stan was involved with such a thing?"

Blackquill leans back, a thoughtful frown on his face. "The Interpol is fairly certain of it," he says slowly, eying him carefully. There is no doubt that he's not quite sure what to think of what he just witnessed, but that doubt speaks volumes to the Phantom: he came to the meeting convinced that YggdraCorp – and, by extension, its chief of staff – had to be behind the murder; now the suspicion is still there, plain as day, but the certainty is not.

Or at least, if he still believes YggdraCorp to be involved, he may be starting to doubt Harrison Fire had a role in it. That would suit him just fine, because there is nothing he wants more than getting Blackquill's attention well away from the man he's impersonating right now.

Harrison reaches for the handkerchief in his suit's breast pocket and uses it to wipe his face. The mask allows perspiration, of course, and the cold drops of sweat on it are real – as is the slight tremor in his voice when he speaks again.

"I can hardly believe it," he says, his voice shaking. "It is... not my intention to doubt your word or that of the Interpol, of course. It simply seems surreal to even think of. It goes without saying you can count on our complete cooperation, although I'm afraid it won't help much."

That statement causes Blackquill's eyes to narrow again, the earlier surprise entirely fading. "Let us be the judge of what. Did he not work for you?"

Harrison nods and reaches with a shaky hand to pick up the glass and empty it in one gulp. The Phantom assumes that what Harrison would do when upset or when trying to appear upset, but at this point hardly any acting is needed: he's shaken, and he can't pretend to ignore it for one instant.

"As I told you, Stan didn't quite work for us as he worked _with_ us," Harrison says. "As you recall, he had his own separate office and... wasn't quite the team player. But he was a leading authority in his field, and I'm certain YggdraCorp wasn't the only company he worked with. If he was indeed involved in something so inhuman through _this_ company, I'm certain I would know," he says , then pauses and gives a weak chuckle. "But then again, you do only have my word that I _didn't_. That's... fair enough. Am I a suspect, Prosecutor Blackquill?"

"We're still looking into the matter," is all Blackquill says before leaning back. He's still observing him carefully, but his words are spoken slowly and he seems less outwardly aggressive. "I have a few more questions about Mr. Doff and his work here. Questions I believe you may be able to answer."

Harrison immediately nods and straightens himself. "By all means, ask away," he says.

Blackquill does ask, of course, but it's nothing he doesn't know how to answer to. The rest of the meeting is relatively easy to go through, but until the very end of it the Phantom feels as though an icy hand is gripping his insides – and he knows it's not only because of Blackquill's presence. As he speaks and speaks and speaks, he can hear the Yatagarasu's voice echoing in the back of his mind.

_That drug isn't even officially _approved_. It's still experimental. There is no data at all about possible side effects; let alone long term ones_.

Now he knows one of the side effects of dream suppressants, if anything: daytime hallucinations. And it's not good, it's not good at all. He's supposed to be in control of everything, and seeing things that are not there - things that can throw him in such a state of distress is the _opposite_ of being in control. He was able to turn the tables at his advantage this time, but he can't hope to be this lucky again.

Another hallucination, another moment like that could be his undoing – especially now that there is a spy set to work for YggdraCorp as well, someone meant to be on the lookout for him and the Yatagarasu. He needs to regain full control, and quickly.

He can only hope that interrupting the intake of the dream suppressants will make the hallucination end right away without lingering any further.

* * *

The Yatagarasu knows even before setting foot out of the labs that this is not her brightest idea yet.

She's not supposed to leave the labs with the Interpol walking around, talking to everyone they can catch – interns, receptionists, anyone going out for a cigarette break. Especially not knowing that Lang is there as well. But really, who is she kidding? Lang is the _reason_ why she's out of the lab.

It's not like her absence would make anyone wonder: she stayed over the lunch break to work – and to wire the phones while she was at it, because being able to listen to every communication going in or out of the lab is certainly worth a shot – and no one would see anything odd with her taking a cigarette break now.

Not that she has a cigarette on her right now, but that's far from a problem.

She spots Lang right at the entrance, talking with one of his men. He looks annoyed, and she can tell right away he wasn't able to get much out of the CEO. Blackquill is nowhere to be seen, which leads her to assume he's still talking to the Phantom. She can only hope the Phantom won't mess this up, but then again hell would have broken loose by now if he _did_.

Besides, Blackquill is his to deal with. She's going to be busy with Lang now.

"I'm sorry, do you happen to have a cigarette? I left mind back in my locker and I really don't feel like going back down three floors."

Both Lang and his agent turn to look at her. She recognizes the other agent as well, one of Lang's men – and a smoker, she recalls, which works perfectly for her right now. He's the one to nod and hand her a cigarette before holding out the lighter as well.

"Thank you! You saved my life," she says, smiling at both of them even though Lang didn't move nor said a word to her. He's looking at her, though: what he sees is a woman in her thirties with dark skin, wiry hair escaping her lab hat and dark brown eyes. Those eyes are still her own, for it's a feature she shares with the real Mary Goround and no contacts were needed, and somehow the notion sends a familiar thrill up her spine when her gaze meets Lang's.

He shows no sign of recognition – of course not: why should he? He has no reason to even suspect she's involved – but he finally tilts his head slightly to acknowledge her presence. "Do you work in the lab?" he asks, as though her clothing isn't making it obvious enough. She ignores the temptation to point out what a useless question that was –_ well, duh_ – and nods.

"Yes. Are you the police? Are you here for what happened to Mr. Doff?" she asks, taking a long drag of her cigarette and leaning against the wall just outside the entrance. She keeps her tone casual, but curious enough. Mary Goround had no personal connections to Stan Doff, and thus it would make little sense for her to be overly upset. Somewhat unsettled, maybe, but nothing more.

Lang gestures for his agent to leave before turning his full attention back to her. He doesn't seem to think much of her – why should he? – but he clearly isn't letting any chance to ask questions pass by. "We're the Interpol, actually. We believe Mr. Doff's death may have ties with another case we're working on; your CEO has been rather cooperative, so we'll be taking our leave shortly. Did you know the victim personally?"

She shakes her head. "No, not really. He was brilliant, I know that much, but he rarely came here personally," she says. She doesn't try to ask for more information about the Interpol's case: she already knows Lang would never divulge details of any kind to people who are not supposed to know. "I met him a few times while I was on my cigarette break and he was coming in or going out, and he always scolded me. A ugly habit, he called it."

Lang snorts lightly. "He had a point."

The Yatagarasu chuckles and man, isn't it hard not to let it turn into a full-blown laugh. She manages, too, which is good for her: laughing before him in her own way would blow her cover in a moment. "Aw, not you, too. It's only a cigarette a day, doc, I promise. Working here can be stressful."

Lang narrows his eyes only a fraction, but she knows him well enough to tell he thinks he might have seen an opening. "You do look tired, sister. Mind if I ask what you're working on?" he asks, and maybe he _really_ believes he sounds casual.

_Oh, Lang_, she thinks with an inward laugh. _Never change_.

"Basic stuff, for now. Just growing batch upon batch of stem cells. They'll be used for... something, I guess. I can't tell what, communication between departments is pretty limited. But from the little I heard, Mr. Doff was working on some repair on the optic nerve. It seemed a really neat project, shame he won't get to- oh, wait. Guess the CEO already told you all you needed about that," she says, and the grim line that is now Lang's mouth is enough to tell her she's right.

"Lang-dono!"

Blackquill's voice reaches them a moment later, nipping any further conversation right in the bud. Lang immediately turns his attention away from her... which suits her just fine, really, because a moment's distraction is all she needs to put a folded piece of paper in the pocket of Lang's jacket. She isn't supposed to be doing this – she's supposed to be _doing_ nothing like this – but then again, how could he know it was Mary Goround to put that in his pocket?

For a moment she entertained the thought of putting a ladybug on him as well, but decided against it: she knows all about Interpol's security measures, and a ladybug on Lang would be detected very soon. Blackquill would make a better target for a such thing, and she's sure the Phantom hasn't let the chance pass by. And, now that Blackquill is here, looking perfectly calm, she can tell the Phantom's presence stayed undetected. Good – one problem less.

As Lang takes his leave from her with a nod and walks up to the car with Blackquill – they'll be filling each other in with what they have found out, she's sure of it, and the Phantom's watch will record everything – the Yatagarasu takes a last drag of her cigarette before throwing it away.

"See you soon, idiot," she mutters under her breath before turning to get back in, to take on Mary Goround's role for the rest of the afternoon.

* * *

Outis can't say he was really bothered when he got a call from YggdraCorp telling him that he should wait until the next day before showing at the company to start his assignment.

A nuisance with Interpol, the CEO had said, but he hadn't really requested an explanation. As long as they paid him in full, he didn't care how long it would take to get to work. Besides, the unexpected free day has allowed him to take the necessary step to verify a certain matter here in Los Angeles... one that may or may not be related to this job.

_Did she say just that? That you were looking for a ghost?_

_Well... I think she said 'phantom' rather than 'ghost', but yeah, that's more or- I-I mean... _

The Phantom. Such a ridiculous nickname, and yet _he_ had taken to use it after rookie Prosecutor Blackquill chose it to refer to him. Outis should have recognized it as a red flag, a sign part of him wished to cling to an identity of some kind... but he hadn't. He had been willfully blind, in a way he'll never be again.

"Mr. Outis, sir?" one of the men he hired calls out, his voice hushed. Outis turns to look at him. In the light of the flashlight the man looks almost like a ghost himself; the fact they're in a cemetery at night isn't quite helping matters. "We retrieved the coffin. We're about to open it. I suppose you'd want to...?"

Outis takes one last drag before flicking his cigarette away, painting a red line in the air for the briefest moment. He turns to the man and smiles. "I ask for nothing better," he says, and follows him to the grave they just opened. The coffin is already laid on the ground, and one of the men has already a crowbar fit beneath its lid – ready to press down and open it any moment.

Outis delays that moment for a little while longer, gaze lingering on the wooden surface.

_Will you be found in here, my boy? Are you beyond my reach for good? Or are you still out there somewhere, a rabid dog with a new master you'll turn around to bite as well someday?_

The thought of his greatest masterpiece and greatest failure having to live on despite being defective – despite being _broken_ – is somewhat painful; Outis would rather see him dead now, bones and ashes resting in a coffin. But on the other hand, part of him wishes to know that what's left of his creature yet lives – so that he can put him down himself, as it should be. He must have made a mistake with him along the way; it would be only fair that he put a remedy to that. "Open it," Outis finally says, his voice barely audible.

There are a few grunts and creaking, then then the coffin's hinges give in and the lid slides aside – not by much, but enough to see part of what's inside once one of the man points the flashlight on it.

For a few moments, nobody moves nor says anything. Then, slowly, Outis smiles and reaches for something inside the coffin. He lifts the small sack of sand, one of the several inside, and gives a brief chortle.

"Not bad, my boy. Your best disappearing trick yet," he murmurs, and he lets the sack fall back into the coffin. It falls on the other sacks with a dull thud, but Outis pays the sound no mind and stares at the name on the headstone, weakly illuminated by the flashlights. Robert LaRoche.

His name. The surname is new, but Outis has known his first name for a long time because he can recall that same name spoken – screamed – once already, in his presence... a long time ago.

_Robb! Please, come back! Help me, don't leave me here! Robb! NO! Please, don't! Robert! ROB-_

He had done the boy a kindness, he recalls: a quick death to end the pain of his broken legs before he and the others were off to chase the other one, the one who tried and failed to escape. A shot in the head should have ended him as well. But it didn't, and he hadn't known he lived until he met him again ten years later, with no memories and under a different name. A nobody, ready to be shaped into _anything_ he wished, so of course there had been no reason at all to tell him he knew, to tell him what his name was.

It looked like he had found out, eventually: he had _sold_ them to obtain it... only to shed it once again, like a snake shedding old skin. But this time he won't escape, not from _him_. There isn't one single trick in the book he knows that Outis doesn't, because there wasn't one single trick in the book he hadn't _taught_ him.

_I shouldn't have failed to kill you the first time. I should have rectified that mistake and killed you when I recognized you. But it matters not. I'll put a remedy to that soon. And it won't be as quick as it was for your friend, my dear Robb. _Johan_. It won't be so easy. It won't be so merciful_.

"I have seen what I needed," Outis finally speaks up, tearing his gaze away from that name – _Robert LaRoche _– and nodding at the men. "Put the coffin back in and close up the grave again. It must look untouched by dawn. It goes without saying," he adds, "that you're not to breathe one word of this."

"Of course not. We'll keep our mouths shut, sir. But..." the man pauses, clearly torn between his curiosity and doing something his occupation must have taught him not to do – ask _questions_. But this time he seems unable to resist. "Who was supposed to be in there? Who _are_ you?"

Far from bothered by his question, Outis smiles – a cold, cold smile. "You may call me Victor Frankenstein, if you wish," he says, letting his gaze wander through dark outlines of the graves all around them. "And I'm looking for my monster."


	7. Beyond the Grave

_A/N: Sorry for the general lack of Athena in the fic so far. This first part got longer than expected. She'll be back in the plot soon, I promise - and not just in flashbacks._

_Also, a big thanks to **yrina918** for proofreading all the previously published chapters of both this fic and Turnabout to the Past. I'm sorry I didn't edit the chapters yet, I've been incredibly busy lately. I promise I'll do that soon!_

* * *

"So you don't think this prosecutor is onto us."

The Phantom – Harrison – nods, leaning back on the seat Dr. Dote offered him when he walked into her office. "I do not think so. He had some suspicions, obviously, as the Interpol must have told him what Doff was involved with – but nothing more. He asked about Doff's work, and I told him nothing but what we agreed I would say. He seemed to be especially interested in the fact Doff worked with other companies as well. He has no reason to suspect YggdraCorp any more than any of them," he says. He pauses for a moment, then he shrugs. "Truth to be told, I expected him to have more bite. He was surprisingly tame for someone with his reputation," he adds.

It's a lie, of course, but it's one he wants the CEO to believe. This company doesn't shy away from high profile murders; the less of a threat they think Blackquill is, the safer he will be.

And believe him she does, to his relief. "That's good to know: one less problem to worry about. The Interpol agent was all the world like a rabid dog; it was plain he believes YggdraCorp is involved, and the fact he cannot prove it almost made him froth at the mouth," she says with an amused chuckle. "A nuisance, but so far they have nothing. And if the prosecutor's attention has indeed turned to other companies, we have nothing to worry about. So far the biggest threat seems to come from whoever managed to infiltrate the facility in Reijam – but we already have someone to take care of that."

The spy, the Phantom thinks, one they hired to keep an eye on the situation and spot anyone who may try to infiltrate YggdraCorp. A spy to catch a spy; an interesting concept, except that they're too late and they're already in. If they only _knew_. "When will he be here?" he asks.

"Tomorrow morning. You'll be the one to show him around. Tell him how everything works and give him all details about any employee he asks about. If he asks for anything you're unable to provide, contact me and I'll take care of it."

Harrison nods. "Very well," he says, but the Phantom lets some doubt in his voice. He knows that Harrison doesn't quite like the idea, nor he trusts this man the CEO decided to hire. Not that it's surprising, really.

No one in their right mind would ever trust a spy.

* * *

"So you don't think the chief of staff is involved."

Blackquill hums and bites a little harder on the feather hanging from his lips. "I wouldn't rule it out entirely," he finally says, leaning back on the car's seat. It's plain as day that Lang is frustrated: his unwillingness to talk about the details of his meeting with the CEO shows clearly that nothing relevant came up through it – and certainly nothing that could prove YggdraCorp's involved with the illegal activities the Interpol has been investigating. Still, it's not like Blackquill can lie about his own meeting with Mr. Fire solely to assuage Lang's frustration. "I'm saying his shock when I told him what Mr. Doff was involved with seemed genuine."

Predictably enough, that does nothing to lessen Lang's scowl. "It may have been an act."

"Obviously. But I'm rather sure I would have been able to tell if he was acting. I'm not so easily fooled."

Lang snorts. "Your Phantom could fool you," he says, causing Blackquill to stiffen.

"LaRoche was one of a kind," he says, glaring pointedly at Lang. "And he's _gone_. I'd appreciate it if you didn't bring him up again. It's _your_ phantom we're after here, isn't it, Lang-dono?"

Blackquill half-expects Lang's temper to explode, but instead he seems to realize he overstepped. He stares at him for one more moment before bowing his head slightly. "... I apologize. I meant no disrespect," he says. "Shih-na was able to fool _me_ just as well, and for more than one year. What I mean is that deception may not be easily detectable. Such is the nature of deception, isn't it? Lang Zi says: even the best tracker can be lost when snow covers the trail."

Blackquill nods. "Fair enough," he says. "I cannot know for a fact the man was not lying. My opinion, however, is that he wasn't feigning his shock when he received the news."

"Perhaps he was shocked to realize we know what is going on," Lang says, but he doesn't sound convinced.

"Hmph. That seems hardly a possibility. If the man was involved, then he wouldn't be surprised at all. The Interpol is involved, you found the facility in Reijam and you were speaking to the CEO about it; it wouldn't take much to realize we must have more than a gut feeling to go by."

Lang sighs. "True enough," he says, looking out of the car's window. "Do you think it's possible the company was never involved to begin with?"

"I wouldn't rule it out. Even though his work with YggdraCorp was his primary occupation, the late Stan Doff worked as a researcher for other smaller companies. Besides, he may have had ties we're unaware of with who the hell knows what people. He was without a doubt involved with the human experiments going on in Reijam, but who else was involved with him is a whole other question we need to answer to."

There are a few moments of silence before Lang nods. "Lang Zi says: the truth lies not at the exit, but rather, shines outside the maze itself. I trust your judgment when it comes to the company's chief of staff, Prosecutor Blackquill. I truly do."

"But you still think the company itself is involved," Blackquill states.

"I suspect as much, yes. Oh, the CEO was so very willing to cooperate and let us know how her company knows nothing of the case we're looking into," Lang says with a scoff. "So much talking and so little substance. Dr. Dote is very good with words, I'll give her that. But so was one of the sneakiest bastards I ever had to deal with, and he was guilty as sin. When the prey leaves no trail, a wolf trusts its instincts. The company may be involved in this sordid story even if its chief of staff is unaware of it."

"That's a possibility," Blackquill concedes. "Either way, I'd look into Stan Doff's other connections as well. I'm certain you have enough men to do just that; there is no point in overlooking the possibility someone else other than YggdraCorp was involved."

Lang gives a brief laugh. "Fair enough. Very well, I suppose I can spare a few men," he says, reaching into his pocket for, Blackquill assumes, his cellphone. "I assume you'll want to-" he adds, only to suddenly trail off and frown in mild confusion. The reason of his confusion becomes evident when he pulls his hand out of his pocket: he's holding something, alright... but it's not a cellphone.

It's a folded piece of paper.

Blackquill watches as Lang unfolds it. He can see something is written in uppercase on it, but he can't make out the words before Lang lifts it to read it. For a moment the confused scowl stays there, then it turns into a somewhat feral smirk.

"Well, well. It seems my instinct was right, after all. Someone decided to deliver me a message during the visit," he says, handing out the piece of paper so that Blackquill he can read what's written on it as well. It's a brief message, straight to the point... and, if it was indeed placed in Lang's pocket while inside YggdraCorp, a rather strong hint that the company is indeed involved with something less than legal.

_Be careful, idiot. They'll kill you if they have to._

* * *

"So you don't think Blackquill recognized you."

"I _know_ he didn't. Do you think we'd both be alive if he had?" the Phantom says dryly, causing the Yatagarasu to smirk. She leans back against a wall, holding her watch up to her lips so that she can keep her voice low and still be heard.

"Fair point. Who would have killed _who_, I wonder?" she muses, but she only means to tease. While it's very likely Simon Blackquill would have hacked the Phantom into pieces where he stood if he recognized him, she knows without the shadow of a doubt that the Phantom wouldn't have tried to murder him in return.

"No point in wondering. It didn't happen," is the flat reply.

She has the distinct feeling he's keeping something from her, but it doesn't quite bother her. She's not telling him about the message she slipped in Lang's pocket, after all. It's just an innocent warning and Lang won't know it was _her_ – it's not like he knows she's involved – but she knows the Phantom wouldn't like that at all.

"Hahahaha! Why so serious, then? Do lighten up! Everything is fine, then. Well, as long as he and Lang don't get themselves in trouble with YggdraCorp."

"Hmph. They should hope they don't, then."

"What if they do?"

"What?"

"You heard me. What do we do if those two idiots get themselves in danger?" the Yatagarasu asks.

"We're not supposed to _do_ anything. We're here to gather information and find out what this company has been testing. Our assignment has nothing to do with their fates should they cross YggdraCorp."

"Uh-uh, yes, sure. The bigwigs would be so proud of that answer they'd give you a cookie. Really now, what would be the plan?"

The Phantom sighs. "We try to keep them out of it by any means necessary. As long as it doesn't blow our cover," he adds, causing her to laugh.

"You know, that last part sounded _almost_ convincing," is all she says before ending the call, a small smile playing on her lips. The Phantom's denial over the lengths he'd go to in order to keep Simon Blackquill from dying is amusing, especially since she knows very well that he tried to save him from execution back when he still stood accused of murder.

But it's good to know it: I means that, should it come to choose between their assignment and the lives of Lang and Blackquill, the Phantom won't hesitate to follow her lead – the hell with the assignment.

She was forced to murder someone she genuinely liked once already; it will not happen again. She may die to keep that for happening, but it matters not: death would be the ultimate thrill, and if she can make sure Lang won't be following her in the underworld she'll die with a laugh on her lips.

* * *

Leaving the orphanage was even easier than Robb expected.

As in, he knew that actually leaving it wouldn't be a problem: they all left all the time anyway, so it was just a matter of not going back for the night. Getting their stuff in the abandoned house – especially Seymour's, really, because he has his books and some other stuff and Robb's gift while Robb only has some extra clothes and the slingshot he wanted to take with him – was a bit trickier, but it was nothing they couldn't do easily enough over a week or so, taking with them a few things at time.

No one had noticed, and they had even manage to take an old mattress and a few blankets there, so it was kinda cozy. Robb also stole a lot of candy so that they could celebrate their first night on their own properly. And they did celebrate... until the thunderstorm started, of course

It's not _that_ bad. Of course, the thunders are very loud and sound so very close and the rain is pouring down, but they're inside a house and the roof isn't leaking or anything, so it's okay. They also have a candle to give some light, so yeah, it's not bad at all. Except that Seymour is hiding under a blanket like a big baby.

"Oh, come _on_," Robb mutters, crossing his arms over his chest with a huff. "Don't be a big baby. It's just a thunderstorm. Don't tell me you're afraid of thunders!" he adds. He knows that Seymour doesn't like thunderstorms at all, but he was never really_scared_ of them – not back in the orphanage, at least. Maybe the unfamiliar setting isn't helping, but it still seems a very stupid thing to be afraid of.

He is not afraid, after all. Nuh-uh. Not in the slightest.

Seymour scowls at him, the blanket still wrapped tightly around him. "I'm not afraid! I'm just-" he begins, only to trail off when there is another crack of thunder and the candle seems to nearly go out. The house creaks around them, causing Seymour to wince, but Robb is still _not_ afraid. He's just going to sleep through it, he thinks, and shifts a tad closer to Seymour on the mattress they're sharing – because he's not scared _at all_, of course, but Seymour is and he may want him to stay close and also they can keep warm this way.

Seymour glances at him and Robb is about to open his mouth to point out that he's not afraid, but then there is another thunder, strong enough to make the window's glass tremble, and the candle goes out. Half a moment later they're both under the covers, clinging to each other so closely that Robb can _feel_ Seymour's heart beating wildly against him.

And his own heart isn't taking it easy, either.

"... Still not afraid," he mutters through a mouthful of Seymour's hair.

"We're keeping warm," Seymour says against his throat, his voice not really firm.

Robb can definitely get behind that reason. "Oh. Sure. It would suck to get a cold on our first night as free men, huh?" he says. There is some more shifting as they snuggle closer and Seymour keeps his head tucked under Robb's chin, but it's not that bad. It's warmer, and if he focuses on their heartbeat slowing down little by little Robb can even shut out the noises of the old creaking house and the thunderstorm raging outside.

Until Seymour speaks again, that's it.

"... Do you remember what they were like? The bombings, I mean."

"Huh?" Pulled back from something close to a slumber, Robb needs a few moments to make sense out of what Seymour just said. He frowns a little in thought. "Yes. No. A little," he says. He remembers the noise, sure enough – the roar of engines followed by an explosion like crack of thunder – but little else. He wasn't yet four years old when the war happened, and the few memories he has of then are very fuzzy. "The noise. I remember the noise. Just like thunder. What about you?" he asks. It occurs to him that, while the war with Cohdopia is a subject that came up pretty often while talking to other orphans – how could it not? It's what caused them to become orphans to begin with – Seymour didn't bring it up even once before.

"Same thing, really," Seymour says, still pressed close to him. "I... I remember the one my parents died in. I _think _that was it. I was with my grandmother when it happened. That's why I didn't die as well, but I thought I would. It was so loud, and all lights went out. I thought we'd die. I think I cried, but grandma kept telling me we'd be fine and I believed her," he says, and he suddenly sounds sad. Robb wonders if it's for the grandmother who raised in on her own until she died as well a few years later, or for his parents... parents he probably doesn't remember much better than Robb remembers his own.

He remembers some things, really – someone laughing, being picked up, a hand ruffling his hair. If he focuses hard enough he can dig up the vague memory of a man with blonde hair, smiling sheepishly while he tried to explain something Robb couldn't comprehend to a woman who stared at him with pale blue eyes just like his own, her hands on her hips and a stern expression on her face that threatened to turn into an amused smile any moment as the man spoke.

_Do you truly expect me to believe Robert did it?_

_Yes. Him, or ghosts. Just don't blame me._

_God, I married an overgrown child. What am I supposed to do with you?_

_How about you give me a kiss? Robbie thinks you should give us both a kiss. Isn't that right, champion? See, he agrees. Can't say no to that face, can you?_

And that's it, that's the most complete memory he can pull out of his mind. All he remembers after that but before the orphanage is the the deafening noise of explosions all around, the sensation of being picked up and carried away, someone's heart beating quickly against his cheek and panting breath above him.

His father, most likely: he was told that his mother was found beneath the ruins of their house, but his father had picked him up and managed to get him to a shelter before his wounds killed him. He remembers nothing else, nothing of what he may have done or said as he carried him to safety... and maybe it's for the best. Remembering that would probably make him sad, and he doesn't like being sad. He rarely is, and he'd rather keep it that way. Still...

"Do your remember your mom and dad at all?" Robb asks quietly.

Face still pressed against his shoulder, Seymour shakes his head slightly. "No. Not much anyway. I remember my grandmother best," he says, his voice trembling a bit. Robb wonders if he should ask what she was like, but he decides not to. Seymour sounds sad enough as it is.

"... Birdbrain?" he calls out quietly after a brief silence.

"Yes?"

"I'm glad you had the guts to come with me," Robb says, and grins a little even though Seymour can't see it.

Seymour chuckles against his neck. "The orphanage would have been deadly boring without you around," he says, then, "we'll be alright, won't we?"

"Yup," Robb says, shifting to get a bit more comfortable and resting his chin on top of Seymour's head. "And tell you what – we're going to have a lot of fun."

_And you won't have to be sad ever again_, he wants to add, but he doesn't because he wouldn't be caught dead saying something so horribly sappy, so in the ends he says nothing else.

* * *

"I called for you. You didn't come back. Why did you let me die?"

This isn't what Seymour's voice sounded like in life, the Phantom thinks as he burrows his face in his hands. The voice he's hearing now – the voice he's _imagining_, because no one is truly speaking and this is yet another hallucination – is hoarse, the voice of someone who screamed and screamed until their throat hurt.

_No! Please, no! I don't want to die! Help me! Help!_

_Robb! Please, come back! Help me, don't leave me here! Robb! NO! Please, don't! Robert! ROB-_

"I trusted you," the voice reaches him again, barely more than a whisper. The Phantom shuts his eyes tighter, refusing to lift his face from his hands. He can hear, as though from a mile away, rain drumming against the window and the distant sound of thunder.

_Don't be a big baby. It's just a thunderstorm. Don't tell me you're afraid of thunders!_

"You're not here," he finally says, willing his voice to stay flat and his heart and breathing to slow into a steady rhythm. "No one is here. You're dead," he adds. It's ridiculous and utterly illogical that he's actually speaking to a room he knows is empty – but somehow it's better than listening to the thunders outside.

"You killed me."

"_They_ shot you."

"You brought me there."

"The catwalk broke. I couldn't know it would happen. It was an accident."

"You ran away. You forgot me. I _trusted_ you."

_We can take on the world, birdbrain. Trust me._

_Promise me that when the moment comes you'll stand there as a man, and die as one._

A bitter laugh leaves the Phantom, who's still refusing to open his eyes and look up. "You shouldn't have. No one should have," he says, and waits for a reply. None comes: the hallucination is over.

The Phantom breathes in and out for a few moments before he finally pulls his hands away from his face and opens his eyes. The bedroom is faintly lit by a street light outside – Harrison Fire often forgets to close the curtains – but it's enough to tell that no one is sitting at the foot of the bed, least than all a long-dead boy with a bleeding hole in his head.

Of course, he was never there to begin with: it was all in his head. As it turns out, the dream suppressant's after effects are lingering even though he took none tonight. This isn't good: it leaves him with both undesired dreams and hallucinations he cannot seem to control. He knows that they could be his undoing if he lets anything show in the wrong moment. Perfect, he thinks. Just _perfect_.

The Phantom shuts his eyes and reaches to press a hand on his forehead. The bullet scar is still there, although far less noticeable than before plastic surgery, and as his head throbs he could swear it's the old wound that's hurting. A wound that should have killed him. It did, in a way – but everything that was taken from him with that one bullet found its way back to him eventually. Seymour was denied that chance.

Robert LaRoche is dead to the world now, _again_, and the phantom that's left of him is now dealing with a phantom of his own. It's worse than dreaming of Blackquill, because at least Blackquill is alive and well, and moving on with his life.

_For now_.

The Phantom clenches his jaw, trying to chase away the thought. The investigation he's involved with may become dangerous, sure enough, but at the moment he doesn't seem to be in any danger... and the Phantom will step in if he has any reason to believe he might be. If Blackquill puts himself in danger, he can still try to shield him – try to save him, no matter the cost. He's in the right position to do so.

But he could do nothing for Seymour. He is _gone_, beyond help: he died begging for his life and knowing that his best friend had left him behind to save his hide. I should have died with him, he thinks tiredly.

_Why did you let me die?_

_I was afraid. I was a coward. I ran away as I always did and as I always would_.

But he cannot run away from his own mind, nor from the memories he so wished to retrieve when he had none. He doesn't regret getting them back; he doesn't regret having a _self_. But now he wishes he could forget again for a time, or at least for his dreams and the hallucinations to stop, for the dead to stay dead.

_The dead is dead. Dead and gone. It's all in your head, and there is no escape._

The Phantom lets out a bitter laugh. "I should have never come back here," he says to the empty room, if anything hear the sound of his voice – anything but the sound of rain and thunders coming from outside. Thinking that helps, somewhat: since the dreams got worse since when he's come back to Los Angeles, he can hope they will fade along with the hallucinations as soon as he leaves again for some other assignment.

He doesn't allow himself even for one moment to think he may have to spend the rest of his life with Seymour Blaxton's voice whispering to him from beyond the grave, no matter where he goes.

* * *

**Kurain Village, June 2028**

"Okay, I'm ready to go... well, whenever _you're_ ready."

Athena is not sure she's ready – she's not sure anyone can ever be ready for some things – but that doesn't stop her from giving Maya a bright smile and flash her a victory sign. "Cyked up and ready to go! We can start any time. Right?" she adds while glancing beside her, where Simon in kneeling.

He doesn't reply at first, his gaze somewhat unfocused, then he slowly nods. "You can proceed, Fey-dono," he says. It's hard to see his expression clearly, as the Channeling Chamber is only lit by candles give the whole place a faint sort of glow, but Athena can feel just fine the spike of fear in his heart. She can understand that, because she's a bit scared herself: she hasn't seen her mother in such a long time, and so much happened meanwhile, and... well, it doesn't really happen every day to see your deceased mother.

The thought of Apollo's smile when he walked out of the Chamber only ten minutes ago helps somewhat, though. He was very doubtful about channeling as a whole, really, but he had believed what Mr. Wright said, as she had. And it had worked, he told her – he was able to see Clay Terran again, to speak to him. The happiness in his heart had been loud and clear, impossible to miss.

And now... now it's their turn. Athena reaches to put a hand over Simon's and turns back to Maya. "Well, you heard him. Let's get started!" she says, and Maya smiles. It's a bright smile, not the kind you'd expect from a spirit medium before a channeling, but it's so _Maya_ and Athena couldn't picture her acting any differently.

"That's the _spirit_," she says cheekily before she lowers gaze to stare down at the picture in her hands – a picture of Athena's mother, the one Aura used to keep in her office. She stares down at it for a few more moments, then she shuts her eyes and her head drops as though she's abruptly fallen asleep, long black hair sliding down to cover her face.

For several moments nothing happens, and Athena feels a pang of worry when she realizes her heartbeat is slowing now all of a sudden. For a moment she almost forgets what she was told – just wait and don't interrupt – and reaches out to shake her, just to make sure she's fine, but before she can move Maya shudders just once before she slowly raises her head to face her and Simon.

Only that it's not Maya Fey anymore. Her hair is down rather than tied up as it was in life, but there is no mistaking her face. The woman kneeling before them in a spirit medium's attire, staring down at her hands as though she's trying to make sense out of what she's seeing, is without a shadow of doubt Metis Cykes.

Simon's heart seems to jump in his chest, but Athena barely notices, because now her own heart feels like it's moved up to her throat. She's prepared for this day, she's thought of everything she always wished she could tell her mother, everything she didn't get to tell her either because she was too young to understand her or because she simply didn't have the time. She had nothing short of a speech prepared, waiting to rush out of her heart and through her mouth like a flood breaking down a dam.

But now that she is there before her, she can't say anything at all. It's as though her heart is _really_ in her throat now, jamming it shut and keeping the words in. For a few moments, she doesn't even breathe.

**Mom!**

"Eek!" Athena recoils when Widget breaks the silence with its shrill cry, and so does her mother – without yelping, though. She tears her eyes off her hands and she finally, _finally_ seems to see them. She looks surprised for a moment, which is not an emotion Athena can remember her showing very often, then the surprise fades and her lips curl in a half-smile.

"... Hello, Widget," she says, and her voice is everything like Athena remembers. Then her gaze shifts upwards, to her and Simon, and only now Athena realizes that even though he's still and silent as a statue his heart is crying out in a whirlwind of emotions. He's still afraid, in some measure, but his surprise is greater – as is his happiness, growing slowly but surely as the realization that this is truly happening sinks in.

As for her, for once she has _no idea_ what she's feeling.

"Athena. Simon," her mother speaks up again, and her smile seems to widen just a fraction. "This is happening fair bit sooner than I was expecting. I thought I would have to wait for the two of you to die to speak to you again. I looked forward to it," she says, then pauses and frowns slightly. "... Well. In a way. I was glad when it turned out you wouldn't have to join me so soon, Simon."

"You... know what has happened since...?" Simon finally speaks, his voice hoarse like an unused instrument.

Metis Cykes nods. "I couldn't be there as much as I would have liked. There are... limits to what we can see, to the extent of time the deceased can be _there_. But I know what you did for Athena. I am forever in your debt," she says, and turns to Athena – whose sight is starting to get really, really blurry.

"Mom..." she starts, but her mother silences her with a sharp gesture.

"No. Listen first," she says, and Athena suddenly feels like she's ten years old again. "I have also seen what you have done for Simon. All the work you put into helping him. All the responsibility you shouldered despite your trauma. I have watched you grow into the woman you are today, and if there is someone who should speak now it's me. I failed to do so when it mattered, but I hope it will matter now as well. I hope it's not too late for me to say I'm proud of you. You – the two of you..." she pauses for a moment, as though trying to come up with the right words. "... I took such pride in my work. I still do, truly, but what is and will always be my greatest accomplishment is you."

Athena blinks to clear her sight, and tears finally slide down her face – still, she smiles and reaches up to wipe them. "I... I've wanted to hear that for so long," she chokes out. "I'm sorry... I'm sorry I didn't understand _before_. I just couldn't tell you loved me, and I... you tried so hard and you wanted the best for me and I just kept complaining about the headphones, or your work, or for not getting out enough and... and...!"

There is more she wants to say, more she needs to say, but before she can even try her mother is reaching out for her – for her and Simon both – and the next moment they're both being pulled close. Simon doesn't try to resist and neither she does, because her mother never hugged her like this before and she never realized until just not how much she's _needed_ it. They need to talk more, and they _will_, but for now all she wants to do is hold her mother back and press her face against her shoulder and weep tears of joy.

She's not surprised to realize that Simon is weeping, too, as he hasn't allowed himself to for a long time.

And that's alright, she thinks, they'll both be alright. They just needed this.

* * *

The spy Dr. Dote hired turns out to be a tall, lanky man who looks perhaps in his mid-fifties, with slicked-back black hair barely streaked with grey, olive skin and dark eyes. He stands when Harrison walks into the CEO's office, and walks up at him with a polite smile.

"Ah, so you must be my guide for today," he greets him, holding out his hand. Although Harrison knows he's not American, the Phantom can detect no accent at all that says otherwise. He's good, he must give him that. "I go by Ulysses Outis. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Fire."

Harrison returns both the handshake and the smile. "I looked forward to meeting you, Mr. Outis," he says. "As I'm certain Dr. Dote has informed you, we're in a rather sticky situation."

Outis chuckles. "I can see that. The trouble you had back in Reijam was bad enough without the Interpol poking around – oh, and the local police, too. Was Prosecutor Simon Blackquill truly involved? That's... quite interesting, I must say."

So this one knows about Blackquill, the Phantom thinks. Then again, it's hardly a surprise: he's widely known as the prosecutor who brought down the Phantom. "He has quite the reputation, yes," he concedes. "However, I don't think he'll be a problem. He's looking into a murder he cannot link to this company."

"The Interpol won't be a problem, either," Dr. Dote points out, still sitting behind her desk. "They have nothing; we were able to handle them well enough yesterday, and we're ready to do so again. You won't need to concern yourself about this, Mr. Outis. All you need to do is look out for any spies that may try to infiltrate the company as they did in the facility in Reijam."

"Or who may have already infiltrated the company," Outis says flippantly, and smiles at the surprised look he gets from the CEO. "Hadn't you considered it? The spies we're dealing with seem rather competent, and may have been fast to act. That's actually very likely if one of them is indeed who I think it might be."

_What...?_

The statement causes both Harrison and Dr. Dote to stare at him in surprise. It's not a surprise the Phantom needs to fake, and it seems to amuse Outis. "I suppose I neglected to mention it before; my bad. I actually believe I have a rather good guess on the identity of at least one of them."

"You do? But how? Who is it?" Dr. Dote asks immediately, leaning forward on her desk.

All questions the Phantom is asking himself as well – how _can_ he know? He's certain he wasn't careless enough to leave anything behind, and neither was the Yatagarasu... or so he assumes. Does this Outis _really_ know, or is he mistaken? He may be mistaken, after all. Or perhaps he's bluffing, but that would be even more worrying: you only have a reason to bluff in front of people you suspect, after all... and there is no one else in the room aside from the CEO and Harrison Fire.

Outis gives the CEO another pleasant smile. "I hope you don't mind if I keep that for myself at the moment. I know who it _may_ be, but not much else. As for how," he adds with a laugh, "I'm rather tempted to say I cannot reveal my tricks, but then again I'm no magician – just a humble spy. Let's just say one of them let something slip back in Reijam. I'm rather sure she never meant to give her partner's identity or lack thereof away, but she was a bit too flippant with her choice of words and gave me just the clue I needed. It happens to the best of us, wouldn't you say?"

Harrison raises an eyebrow. "That sounds rather convenient," he says.

_I'm going to kill her_, the Phantom thinks.

Outis tilts his head on one side. "Do you believe she may have tried to mislead us?" he asks. He doesn't sound condescending: he truly seems to be taking the idea in consideration... but it may just as well be an act.

Harrison shrugs. "Not quite. I don't know enough to truly make a hypothesis, after all. It does seem odd, though, that a spy would let such vital information simply slip off her tongue."

_She would_. _Damn her and her big mouth, she would._

Outis hums. "Well, truth to be told, she didn't let important information slip out. Or at least, nothing that would be important to most people. She couldn't imagine that what she said would be heard by _me_. As it happens, I have crossed paths with her partner before. If my guess is correct, that's it."

That was just about the last thing the Phantom expected to hear. Has he ever met this man before? The name is unfamiliar, but of course it's not his real one, and therefore it's irrelevant. His face and voice don't bring back anything, either, but the Phantom knows very well that means nothing: he's far from the only spy who can change his face and voice, after all.

If this man is indeed correct and they have met, he may have looked and sounded entirely different.

Maybe he's mistaken, the Phantom thinks; maybe he thinks he's after some other spy. But then, why would he find the fact Blackquill is on the case _that_ interesting?

"If it's indeed who I think it is, he's not quite as good as he used to be. He was broken, so to speak, and I know from experience that no matter how well something broken is put back together – the cracks will show, and it will break again under pressure. I might know _just_ what to do to put him under the right kind of pressure," Outis is saying now, looking away from him and at the CEO.

The Phantom doesn't like the sound of it. He doesn't like it _at all. _He can't ignore the fact that he might be very well referring to him, of how he was exposed before everyone and, quite literally, _broke_. This man may truly know the Phantom is involved... but again, who in the world _is_ he? When and how may have they met?

"... But even if it's not him, you don't need to worry. If anyone has infiltrated this company or will try to, I'll know it before long," Outis is saying, then he turns back to Harrison with a smile. "Now, I suppose it's time for you to be my guide. Any chance we may stop by a coffee machine? I had some business to attend to last night, and I got less sleep than I should have."

Harrison nods. "Of course. I could use some coffee myself this morning, actually. I'll lead the way," he replies, wondering how is this man precisely planning to put him – as said – _under pressure._

He has the unpleasant sensation he'll find out sooner than he'd like.

* * *

While he knows his ring tone of choice isn't precisely what most people would expect to hear in a court of law, Blackquill can't bring himself to care; when you've had to live seven years knowing that most people consider you a murderer, people's opinions on such trivial details have no importance whatsoever. Actually, he's come to find people's reactions to it quite amusing to watch.

Still, when Steel Samurai theme rings out this time he's not amused at all. He's hardly amused by sudden loud noises when he's trying to focus, especially after a sleepless night looking into everything he could about YggdraCorp – most information having been supplied by the Interpol.

Lang had seemed almost _frantic_ after he found the message in his pocket, and for a good reason.

"It was her, it _must_ have been her! Who else could it be?" he had repeated several times, and no one had needed him to make any names to know precisely who he was referring to – the woman he had last known as Shih-na. "We know she'd involved! Her DNA was in Reijam, and now this! She's in there somewhere, and I'll hunt her down if it's the last thing I do. Turn this car back! _Turn back, I said!_"

It had taken Blackquill quite some effort to keep him from storming back to YggraCorp's headquarters, but in the end Lang had realized it would be a foolish move: they couldn't just rush back there like a pack of rabid dogs and hold everyone in for questioning with nothing but a note in their possession and no real proof on who had even written it.

It was clear, however, that they needed to find out more... and, as a result, Blackquill has spent the whole night in his office reading through all they had while Lang used each and every of his sources and contacts to find out every small detail about the company that may have escaped them previously.

And, while Blackquill isn't new to sleepless nights, he cannot say he appreciates _fruitless_ ones. Being snapped out of focus by his cellphone does nothing to improve his mood.

He reaches for his phone, half-expecting it to be Lang, and blinks when he notices that the caller's number is not showing. With a slight frown, he takes the call and brings the cellphone to his ear.

"Blackquill speaking."

"Prosecutor Blackquill," a man's voice greets him from the other side of the line. It's not a voice Blackquill recognizes. "I hope I didn't interrupt anything important. I know you're a very busy man. Looking into Stan Doff's murder, I assume?"

Blackquill frowns. "Who is this?" he demands to know.

The man gives a small, pleasant laugh. "I hope you'll forgive me for not answering. That is not important."

"Let me be the judge of that."

"Ah, but you're no judge, are you? You're a prosecutor. One who could use a tip, I believe. Wouldn't you like to know where you should start looking for answers?"

Blackquill's scowl deepens, and he bites down harder on the feather between his teeth. "If you have information on the murder, show yourself and speak to me face to face – so that I may cut your tongue off if you spew any lies," he says.

Far from intimidated, the man laughs again. "Why, I think I can see why he found you so interesting. Pity it was also his downfall. That's something I can't quite forgive you for, I'm afraid."

_He? _"What in the blazes are you prattling about?"

The laugh dies down, and the man speaks again. "You seek the truth, don't you, Prosecutor Blackquill? That's what prosecutors do. People like me are meant to conceal it; whether for the better or the worse... well, that's in the eye of the beholder. But I want to help you this one time, Simon Blackquill – even though you ruined my finest work. I can tell you where to start looking for the truth."

Blackquill snorts. "If you have something meaningful to say, get on with it alrea-"

"The grave."

It takes a moment for Blackquill to process what he just heard. Whatever he was expecting the man to utter, it wasn't this. "What...?"

"Some things exist beyond the grave. That's what phantoms are all about, isn't it?" the man continues. "If you want the truth, Blackquill, there is a grave you need to check. You know _whose_."

And that's it, that's all the man says: the next moment there is a click and the call ends, leaving Blackquill speechless, sitting still in deafening silence.


	8. The Channeling

_Some things exist beyond the grave. That's what phantoms are all about, isn't it?_

No. No, it can't be.

_If you want the truth, Blackquill, there is a grave you need to check._

It _cannot_ be!

_You know _whose_._

And he knows it, gods be damned, he knows _precisely_ what grave the stranger on the phone had to be referring to. He knew it the instant those words were spoken, as sure as a hawk diving for its prey hiding in tall grass – LaRoche's grave.

Blackquill rests his elbows on top of his desk and leans his head in his hands. His mind is reeling and his stomach churns, and he cannot tell what is causing it – the implications of all this, or the fact LaRoche's grave was the first one he thought of. He trusts him – he _trusted_ him – to face his demise as a man. And he did, he _did_, and his name wasn't supposed to be the first one to come to his mind.

It simply cannot be, and he shouldn't be even considering it. He saw him die. He spent his last night in this world with him, let him weep on his shoulder, listened to his last words before the trapdoor opened and he fell to his death.

_Thank you. For... for giving me a name, for making me someone. Thank you for not giving up on me._

"He's _gone_," Blackquill snarls to his empty office, fists clenching on locks of hair. This is someone's sick joke, no doubt. LaRoche cannot have done a such thing, he can't have simply faked his death after-

_No one said he faked his death._

The thought feels like a sudden icy shower, and yet the next moments his gut is burning with something not too far away from shame. Whoever it was at the phone, prankster or not, simply told him to inspect the grave; at no point did he say anything to indicate the grave would be found empty because LaRoche faked his death. And yet... yet that was the first thing he thought he meant.

It's not how it should be. It's not _right_. LaRoche kept his promise to die a man, and he deserves better than this – he deserves more respect, as he deserved his trust in the end.

But perhaps he never truly trusted him. The Phantom fooled him for almost a year, but Blackquill learned to trust Robert LaRoche... or he thought he did. One vague phone call that may be coming from any prankster, and he assumed the worst right away.

_But would it truly be the worst? May it be it was hope that led you to think he may still live?_

"Absurd!" Blackquill snaps to no one before standing abruptly. He reaches to grab the phone's receiver... and then he pauses, his hand in mid-air.

Who may he call now? The Chief of Police? The Chief Prosecutor? Agent Lang? And what for – to tell them that because of a phone call from hell knows _who_ they now should... should do what? Go dig up LaRoche's grave, disturb his eternal rest, disrespect the dead? And over what? Over mere words? Over suspicion he shouldn't allow himself to have?

… Or over hope that could only lead to more despair?

_Some things exist beyond the grave. That's what phantoms are all about, isn't it?_

Blackquill scowls and pulls his hand away. "It cannot be," he hisses once again to his empty office. He will not believe it, _cannot_ believe it.

_B-B-But I thought you believed me…?!_

_Silence! Ha ha ha ha ha! __Oh, how you amuse me so!_

_Humans can't truly trust each other, which is exactly why the illusion of trust is so enticing._

_Promise me that when the moment comes you'll stand there as a man, and die as one. Promise me._

_... I promise._

_Don't forget me. Please, _please_, don't forget me._

_Never._

_Thank you for not giving up on me._

No. No, he cannot do it, not with nothing to go by but a phone call from what could be a prankster or a madman. He won't disrespect him like this. It's disrespectful enough that he allowed the thought to enter his mind. But on the other hand, he cannot ignore the call he just got. It may truly mean something, something other than LaRoche having somehow cheated death. He simply told him to check the grave.

What if whoever called did something to LaRoche's grave? What if his eternal rest was already disturbed? What if the ultimate disrespect was already visited upon him, his grave violated and his body taken?

The thought chills Blackquill to the bone, almost more than the phone call itself did, but this time it doesn't freeze him in place – rather, it prompts him to _move_. He reaches for his coat and within moments he's out of his office, the door closing behind him with a bang.

* * *

The Yatagarasu isn't surprised at all when the doorbell rings.

It's Tuesday evening, and she knows that Harrison Fire would always drop by Mary's apartment on Tuesday evening. It's not something she thinks of as necessary, but the Phantom wouldn't budge: even now that he has a self of his own, he'll keep up the illusion by maintaining even the most insignificant habits of whoever he's posing as. Not that she insisted much for him not to: teasing him is always fun, and it's not like she can do that while they're both posing as someone else.

After giving a quick scratch on the head of Mary Goround's ferret – Mary would lock it in its own room and clean up thoroughly when Harrison came over because he was allergic to fur, but the Phantom is not and thus no need to bother – the Yatagarasu stands up and walks to open the front door with a smirk.

"Hey, Lames Bond, just how far are we going to get into this not-so-secretly-lovers act? Because I'm not really in the mood right now and-" she trails off with a surprised gasp when the Phantom roughly shoves her back and steps inside. She stumbles back, but she manages not to fall. Her smirk falters and for a moment she almost frowns – _almost_. "What was _that_ about? Can't remember you ever mentioning Mr. Fire liked it rough," she says flippantly as the Phantom shuts the door behind himself. He's still wearing Harrison Fire's face and attire. "Or do you? Hey, if this is the effect seeing Blackquill has on you-"

"_Silence_," the Phantom cuts her off, staring at her with narrowed eyes. She has to wonder for a moment if he even realizes he sounds all the world like Blackquill, but before she can voice that thought he speaks again. "Why are you not wearing your mask?"

She shrugs. "Hey, I'm in my own home. Well, Mary's. Anyway, no one is coming in to see me-"

"Someone _might_."

"Like who?"

"Anyone," the Phantom snaps. "Your sloppiness may cost us everything. Now tell me what you said back in Reijam," he adds, causing her to blink. What the hell...?

"In Reijam?"

"After I _captured_ you and left you in the hands of those goons for... how much was that? Five minutes? Ten? And it was _still_ enough time for you to tell them too much!"

The Yatagarasu blinks again. Okay, now she's completely lost. "Wait a minute there! I didn't tell them anything!"

The Phantom raises an eyebrow. Or, rather, Harrison Fire's eyebrow. "Am I supposed to believe you were silent for more than one minute?"

Well, that would be a pretty transparent lie, to be honest. "... Fine, I did say some stuff. But I let nothing important slip. How dumb do you think I am?" she adds, crossing her arms and sniffing somewhat haughtily.

"And yet this spy they hired – this _Outis_ – says you did," he retorts. "He claims he knows who one of us is, and he knows it because _you_ told them!"

That takes her by surprise, she has to admit, but the next moment she's frowning again. She can't have possibly messed up that badly! "Look, he must have been bluffing," she says, holding her hands out. "I mean, seriously – do you think I would be so stupid I'd let something as important as your identity just slip out of my mouth? C'mon! You must know me better than that by now! I only mocked them some, okay? They were all so damn _serious_. I had a few laughs, and mocked them because I knew they'd never catch-" she suddenly trails off when it occurs to her what she precisely said to mock them.

_You're wasting your time, boys. So spare yourself the hassle and have a few laughs. You're trying to catch a_-

… _Oh. Whoops. _

"Oh. Whoops," she says.

_You're trying to catch a phantom. _

The Phantom stares at her. "I see your failing memory is working again," he says coldly. "What did you tell them?"

She gives him a sheepish grin. "Okay, um... I _may_ have cracked a joke on how they were trying to catch a phantom at some point."

"You did _what?_"

Controlled as he may be, the Phantom looks all the world like he'd very much like to strangle her. It's not enough to make her step back, but it does her to speak quickly. "Look, it was just- it's just a figure of speech! Who the _hell_ would even take that seriously enough to connect it to you?"

The Phantom draws in a deep breath, and suddenly he looks almost _tired_. "Someone who already crossed paths with me, that's who," he mutters. "Or at least, that's what Outis said."

The Yatagarasu stares at him. "Wait, are you saying the two of you already met?" she asks. Suddenly, that he may have guessed who she was referring to doesn't seem _that_ out there; especially since he must also know that her accomplice took over a guard's role without anyone noticing. There aren't many spies, even highly trained, who can do as much – and it's, ironically enough, the Phantom's trademark. "But how? When? Who _is_ he?"

The Phantom's jaw clenches. "I wish I knew," he says bitterly. "If what he says is true, I have no clue who he may be and how we may have met. He doesn't seem to know whose role I took and thus he didn't recognize me, but he _knows_ me while I don't know _him_. Quite a difference from what I'm used to."

"He may be wrong. Maybe he thinks he's after some other spy," the Yatagarasu suggests. She's not that certain, but it's still a possibility. "I mean, you're believed to be dead."

"Plenty of spies have been believed to be dead. It means nothing," the Phantom remarks, and she has to admit he has a point. She sighs.

"I see. A well. Pity this had to happen," she says, and reaches in her pocket to pull out a cell phone that's not a cell phone at all. It takes a few quick gestures to turn it into a gun, and she raises it against the Phantom before he can even move.

He doesn't even try to move, truth to be told: he stares at the gun and then back at her with a flat expression before speaking. "Do it, and the mission is over with. I'm still needed," he says.

"You were compromised. You know what my instructions are," the Yatagarasu replies. "Keep your hands down. I'll shoot the moment you try to even _touch_ your watch."

The Phantom doesn't try to do that, either. It's good to see he's not stupid enough to underestimate how fast she can be. "I didn't think I'd ever see you follow the instructions."

"Hey, there's always a first time."

"And yet you're not shooting," he states. They stare each other for a few moments in complete silence... and she is the first one to crack, as always.

"Pffftt...!"

The Phantom stares at her, unblinking, as she starts laughing. And, as always, she cannot quite stop. "Hahahahaha! Pfff- HAHAHA! Look at you! Did you – hahahaha! – did you think I was really going to kill you even for a moment?" she asks, lowering the gun and reaching up to wipe some tears of mirth from her face with her other hand.

The Phantom snorts. "I would have expected as much from anyone else."

"Hah! Not from me, then?"

"Ending me would end the mission for you as well, and deprive you of your dubious _fun_. I'm rather certain you don't want that. Not with Agent Lang involved," he adds, causing the Yatagarasu to laugh again.

"Alright, fine. You got me," she says with a grin before she clears her throat. "Actually, about that..." she adds, pausing in a way that makes it absolutely clear that he will _not_ like what he's about to hear.

He seems to get the message just fine. "... What _else?_"

She grins at him. "Well. I guess that since I still have the gun, this is the safest moment to let you know that I may or may not have slipped a message in Lang's pocket."

If the Phantom feels any surprise, it doesn't show on his borrowed face. He stares at her and says nothing.

"... So, you're not angry?"

And stares.

"Did you hear what I said?"

And stares.

"Blink once for yes, twice for no."

And _stares_.

The Yatagarasu lowers the gun. "You're _not_ about to have a stroke, are you?"

The Phantom draws in a deep breath before he slowly reaches up to take off Harrison Fire's mask. He lets it fall on the floor and exhales before speaking. "... I almost wish I did," he says flatly. Now that he's not wearing a mask she can see just fine how dark the shadows under his eyes are. She'd be surprised to know he slept for more than a couple of hours the previous night. "There is brandy in the house, isn't there?"

"Think so. But I thought Mr. Fire never drank in the eveni-"

"I don't _care_ what Fire did or did not do," the Phantom cuts her off. "_I _want that brandy. I'm going to get a glass, we're going to sit down and you're going to explain to me what the hell you wrote him and why you though it was such a bright idea. Any objections?"

Tempted as she is to take the chance and yell 'OBJECTION'! to his face, the Yatagarasu decides against it. Amusing as it is to poke fun at him, she has the distinct feeling his reaction wouldn't amuse her _at all._

* * *

Outis is far from surprised when he sees a cab stopping before the cemetery's entrance and Simon Blackquill stepping out of it – alone. He does strike him as the kind of man who wants to see everything with his own eyes before getting anyone else involved, he knew no one else would be with him... or at least not just yet.

Simon Blackquill is the kind of man who can carry quite the heavy burden without breathing a word about it to anyone, and Outis can respect that. It's almost a pity that Blackquill will need to go once he's played his part in this – but that cannot be helped. He cannot be allowed to live, not after wronging him as he did by ruining his masterpiece. And besides, his end would be just the right way to teach good old—  
_Johan  
_—Robb a lesson, his very last lesson.

Perhaps he will no longer try to escape death, then. Perhaps he will beg for it. Truth to be told, Outis rather hopes he will. Not that it will make any difference in the end: it won't be quick, nor easy, nor merciful.

Outis holds back a smile and watches as Blackquill steps past the gate leading to the cemetery with quick steps, ignoring it's keeper's warning that there is only half a hour left before it closes. He waits for a couple of minutes before following, keeping hidden in the growing shadows of the evening.

He knows exactly where he'll find him, and he knows what the outcome of this is going to be.

After all, he's just made sure himself that it will be obvious at first sight that something is very, very wrong.

* * *

Something is _wrong_.

Blackquill can tell as much the moment he sees LaRoche's grave from afar, and he can feel his heart jumping in his throat, anger and disbelief clouding his mind. He runs the rest of the way, and when he reaches it he's aware of nothing but the hammering of his heart, the blood rushing in his ears and the sight before him.

The grave stone is untouched, but it's the _only_ thing still in place. The earth beneath it has been dug up and thrown all around the grave with a shovel that's been left on the ground right next to the grave. Enough earth has been shoveled away to expose the grave liner beneath – and Blackquill can see with dawning horror that the concrete slab is broken, the crack crossing it wide enough for him to see, if barely, LaRoche's coffin.

The lid seems still in place, but what if they _took_ him?

But who would do a such thing? And _why_?

Disbelief soon fades into anger, and Blackquill bites into the feather between his teeth hard enough to snap it. Whoever made that phone call must be responsible for this, he thinks, and reaches into his coat's pocket for his cell phone. He has to report what happened, to the police and the Interpol both.

Now that it's clear that LaRoche's resting place was violated, they'll need to pull out his coffin and see if it was opened as well. He needs to make sure that at least he's still there, that they didn't disrespect his body as they disrespected his grave. If they did, whoever _they_ may be, then may the gods help them and _him_.

In his urgency, he doesn't see the man staring at him from a distance before turning to walk away with a smirk on his lips.

* * *

"And it wasn't a voice you recognized, you said?"

"Hmph. I'm rather certain your heard me the first time, Lang-dono. Wolves have sharp hearing, I was told."

Lang can't say he cares much for Blackquill's attitude right now, but he decides to let it slide. He's had his moments as well while under pressure, and if he was in his place – with Shih-na's grave rather than the Phantom's – he certainly wouldn't be the most pleasant person to talk to. Not that he usually _is_, but still.

"I see. If the caller's ID was hidden as well, I'm afraid there is no way for us to trace the call. I suppose the best we can do now is examining the shovel to see if we can find prints," he adds, but he's rather certain they won't find any. He can't picture anyone getting down to a such work without gloves, and he doubts anyone would be stupid enough to leave prints behind after trying to conceal their identity.

Blackquill nods and is about to say something, but one of Lang's men walks up to them right in that moment.

"We removed the concrete and reached the coffin, sir. The lid has been forced open at least once already and then put back in place. We're... ready to open it again any moment," he adds, this time looking at Blackquill.

While Blackquill's expression stays unreadable, it doesn't escape Lang at all how his hands clench into fists for a moment before he replied. "Very well. I want to see it happen," he says calmly.

He says nothing more as both he and Lang walk up to the grave, where Lang's men have already pulled up the coffin from the grave and leaned it on the ground. There are several powerful flashlights pointed at it and Lang can now see clearly that yes, the coffin was already opened with force, the lid hastily jammed back in place. Opening it again will take little effort: the hinges are clearly broken. May it be that what Blackquill suspects is true? Has someone taken his body out of its grave for... for what? Some sick, morbid joke?

The thought alone is enough to anger him. Regardless of what kind of man this Phantom has been in life, regardless of his crimes, such disrespect towards the dead is simply unforgivable.

"Should we open it now, sir?" one of Lang's men asks, holding on a crowbar under the lid. "Or should-"

"Case your bleating and open it already!" Blackquill snaps, causing the man to recoil and Lang to scowl. He's willing to put up with more than usual because he can understand how trying the situation is, sure enough – but he draws a line to ill treatment of his men.

"Lang Zi says: every pack has its own rules," he says coldly, causing Blackquill to turn back to him. "And this, Prosecutor Blackquill, is _my_ pack. These are _my_ men. They're not yours to order around. If there's frustration to be vented, I am here and will be more than ready to meet your sword with fangs if so you wish."

Blackquill stares at him for a long moment before turning away. "My apologies. I meant no disrespect."

Lang nods. "None taken," he says. He overstepped once as well, and Blackquill bears him no ill for that. He won't either. He turns back to his man. "Open it," he says.

A little pressure on the crowbar is indeed all that it takes: the hinges already broken, the lid gives in and slides aside right away – revealing the content of the coffin.

And it's not what Lang expected. As everything up to this point seemed to point to body snatching, he expected the coffin to be empty; everyone did, he's sure. But the coffin is not empty, not quite: there are several objects in it that may just change everything – sacks. Small sacks of...

"Sand," Blackquill speaks quietly after crouching down and grabbing one of the sacks, breaking the moment of stillness and silence. He lets the sack fall back in the coffin and stands. "Sacks of sands. Roughly the weight of a grown man, I'd wager," he adds, his voice unnaturally quiet. It's the voice of a man whose fury is barely in check; a man who's scared of what he may _do_ if he lets anger rule him.

The reason why is plain as day: the presence of those sacks may change everything. There is no use they may have possibly served but to weigh down the coffin and make it appear like a man's body was inside – yet, if indeed a body was buried in that coffin and then stolen, whoever stole it had no reason whatsoever to weigh it down. After all, if the phone call Blackquill received is anything to go by, whoever did this must have _wanted_ them to check the grave, to know it was empty.

Suddenly, Lang has to seriously consider the idea the Phantom's body was never buried to begin with. Blackquill must be thinking the same, too – and Lang finds himself trying to think of another explanation.

"The sand may have been placed after the body was taken in order to confuse us," Lang says slowly. "It's not a hypothesis we can entirely discard just yet."

"... I suppose not," Blackquill says, his voice still dreadfully quiet. He says nothing else: he simply turns to leave the cemetery, soon fading into the darkness around them. Lang doesn't try to stop him; in the morning there will be more than enough time for them to talk about this mess and figure out where to go from here.

Let him have some time alone, he thinks. Hell knows if _he_ needed it when word reached him that the woman he knew as Shih-na had escaped. "Get me in contact with the local police and Mr. Pros- Chief Prosecutor Edgeworth," Lang tells one of his men. The police was already contacted when they needed permission to search, and now they must let the know the outcome of their search. As for Edgeworth, Lang is rather sure he may want to know it from him before he has to deal with Blackquill in the morning. With a sigh, Lang turns to glance at the sacks of sand in the coffin where Simon Blackquill's phantom should be.

_I'd appreciate it if you didn't bring him up again. It's _your_phantom we're after here, isn't it, Lang-dono?_

"Not only her, not anymore," he says to no one in particular, and he shuts his eyes, his head starting to hurt just enough for him to know he'll be dealing with one hell of a headache very, very soon.

* * *

"Guten Morgen! Wright Anything Agency! This is-"

"Athena." Athena trails off when Simon's voice reaches her from the other side of the line, causing her to frown. On one hand she's always glad to hear from him – they haven't seen each other in court in a bit, come to think of it – but on the other hand, something is _off_ with his voice. Something is bothering him, she can tell. "Simon! How are you?" she asks. Realizing it's not a client, Apollo sighs and keeps watering Charley.

"... Not as good as I'd like. But perhaps I can turn to you to regain my peace of mind," Simon says. He sounds _tired_, Athena thinks, in a way he hasn't sounded in two years. "I recall you mentioning that Fey-dono will be visiting your office these days."

"Yup! She's already here, really. Well, not here right now – she's at Gatewater Land with Mr. Wright, Trucy and Pearl. They should be back this afternoon, though! What is it about?"

She hears Simon drawing in a long breath before speaking again. "I know I'm asking much," he says. "But I find myself in need of her help once again. I need her to channel a spirit. It is a most urgent matter that simply cannot wait."

The request catches Athena by surprise, but then again she should have seen it coming: what else could he need Maya for, after all? "I'm sure she'll be glad to help, don't worry! Just come over this afternoon – anytime after three should do. So, who does she have to channel? Some murder victim? Are you _that_ stuck?" she asks jokingly, but what Simon says next causes the smile to freeze on her lips.

"LaRoche. I need her to channel LaRoche."

* * *

"_You idiot!"_

Robb blinks, entirely taken aback by Seymour's outburst, and doesn't even have the time to hold up his hands before the other boy pushes him, hard, causing him to stumble back again the wall.

"Hey! What's _wrong_ with you?" he protests, his self-satisfied grin finally fading entirely to turn into a scowl. He takes a step towards Seymour, and yelps in surprise when Seymour pushes him back again. He's angrier than he's ever seen him, Robb realizes, even more than when they were little kids and he killed a blackbird by mistake – and he has no idea _why_.

"What's wrong with _you_!" Seymour snaps. "What were you thinking? Bet you weren't! You never _think_!"

Robb frowns. Really, what _is_ wrong with him? It's not like he did anything wrong. Some cop had seen him stealing from the market and had tried to chase him, so Robb had ran up a building's fire escape and lost him by leaping from one roof to the other. It was fun, really, and he did get away, so what was his problem?

"Hey, I had to get away, and the guy couldn't leap like I can and-"

"You could have _died_!" Seymour shrieks, cutting him off. Robb is both surprised and alarmed to see that there are tears welling up in his eyes. Seymour doesn't seem to acknowledge them. "You almost fell! I thought you would- you're an _idiot_!"

The accusing tone causes Robb to bite his lower lip. He doesn't like it when Seymour is upset, least of all when it's because of him, but it's not like he did anything wrong! He had to lose that cop, and going up the roofs was the quickest way to do it, and it worked. He's _good_, and even when he couldn't quite make the leap he was perfectly capable to grab the ledge and pull himself up.

"But I didn't fall!" he protests. "I _never_ fall!"

Seymour seems about to scream again, but then he reaches up to rub his eyes and sniffles. "But you almost did," he chokes out. "I thought you would. I thought you'd die and I could only stand there and watch!"

Robb opens his mouth to speak, but no sound comes out for a few moments. He bites his lower lip again, feet shuffling on the floor. He was prepared to snap back, but he was not prepared to watch Seymour crying.

Suddenly, his usual excuse – _I never fall!_ – seems incredibly dumb. It's true that he didn't and he doesn't really think he ever will, but he knows he'd be scared to death if he had to watch Seymour pulling a stunt like that and _almost_ missing the roof. He _would_ have died if he couldn't catch the ledge, and Seymour... Seymour would have been left all alone, _again_. Robb hadn't even thought about it until now.

_You never think!_

"... Hey, birdbrain...?" Robb finally calls out. He awkwardly reaches out for Seymour's shaking shoulder, but his hand stops in mid-air. "I, uh... sorry," he says weakly.

Seymour tears his hands off his face and opens his mouth to speak, glaring at him with reddened eyes, but the next moment the glare fades, leaving behind utter surprise as Robb's words sink in. "... What?"

Robb crosses his arms and looks away. "I'm sorry," he mumbles again. "Didn't mean to scare you."

"Are you feeling okay?" Seymour asks, and reaches to put a hand on his forehead. "You're warm," he says.

Robb snorts and slaps his hand away. "Hey! I'm serious!"

"That's a first," Seymour grins weakly before sniffling again and reaching up to dry his cheeks with a sleeve. When he speaks again, he sounds at least slightly angry again. "Don't give me a scare like that ever again."

Robb grins back. "No, mom," he says.

Seymour snorts and gives a halfhearted swipe Robb easily ducks under before reaching out to pull Seymour into a crushing bear hug. He expects the other boy to try struggling out of his grip, as he always does before they start wrestling a bit – and thus he's entirely taken aback when Seymour reaches to hold him back just as tight, burrowing his face against the side of his neck.

"Huh..." Robb mutters before clearing his throat. "... You sure _you_ don't have fever, birdbrain?"

Seymour mumbles something against his neck that sounds a lot like 'idiot' before he pulls back and busies himself rolling his shirt's sleeve up, his face oddly reddened.

"If you die and leave me alone, I'll find a way to bring you back so that I can kick you ten ways to Sunday," he says without looking at him, and he turns to walk away before Robb can say anything.

But maybe it's better this way, because for the first time since when he can remember he's left speechless.

That and his face feels really, really warm.

* * *

"Mr. Fire! How are you this fine morning?"

"_Ow!"_

While that of recoiling was only an act – the Phantom is not so easily startled by a door opening and a sudden greeting, but Harrison Fire would be – the yelp of pain that leaves him is not. But Harrison Fire was the kind of man to pour hot coffee over his hands if startled, and the Phantom does just the same. Of course, he's careful to only pour coffee on his left hand; he doesn't want to ruin the patch of fake skin hiding the scar that crosses the back of his right one.

"Oh, my apologies. I didn't mean to startle you," Outis says, approaching him at the coffee machine and pulling a tissue out of his breast pocket to hand it to him. "I'm glad you didn't catch your shirt, too. It looks really expensive. Let me get you another cup," he adds, reaching for his pocket to pull out some coins.

Harrison smiles, wiping the coffee from his hand with the tissue Outis handed to him. "Only if you allow me to get you one in return," he says.

_Who are you? How do you know of me?_

The other man gives a pleasant laugh and he inserts some coins into the coffee machine. "It sounds like we have a deal. Later – I already had coffee so I could stay awake through my conversation with Mr. Drawers."

Harrison nods. Chester Drawers is the company's chief systems designer, and one of the men Dr. Dote insisted for Outis to meet. He's one of the few, aside from the CEO, who knows _precisely_ what YggdraCorp is working on. A shame that they had no way to know _who_ knew _what_ beforehand, but they will have to work with what they have. That the CEO would know was obvious, but taking on her role was not an option: she's significantly shorter than both himself and the Yatagarasu, which makes it impossible for either of them to pass off as her. "So you have met with Chester already," he says.

Outis nods. "I have, yes. If I can be blunt, he's one of the most boring fellows I've ever met in my life."

Harrison chuckles. "You're far from the first one to say as much. Not precisely a load of fun, I agree."

The other man sighs. "Definitely not. Ah well. At least he could give me some details about Erysichthon."

Harrison blinks in confusion – confusion the Phantom doesn't have to fake. "Erysichthon?" he repeats. The name is familiar, but only because of memories of before, of the tales Seymour used to read and share with him when they were children. Erysichthon of Thessaly, he recalls – cursed by a goddess to suffer never-ending hunger that grew and grew the more he ate, until he devoured his own body.

Outis nods and hands him the cup of coffee just out of the coffee machine. "Oh, right. I forgot you weren't filled in with the details. The CEO intends to do so soon anyway, and therefore I have permission to discuss it with you. Erysichthon is how they call the toxin they're just now done testing."

A toxin, the Phantom thinks. He's not really surprised – that they wouldn't be using people to illegally test a cure for common cold didn't take much guesswork – but it's good to know what they're dealing with. He wonders if it has any connection to the peculiar state Stan Doff's body and that of the politician back in Reijam were found. "That's... a peculiar name," the Phantom says.

"It is. But a rather fitting one, I have to admit," is the reply. The Phantom waits for more, but he receives no further details: Outis turns his attention to the other vending machine instead and lets out a hum. "Say, would you mind if I took advantage of your offer to get a snack rather than coffee? I'm rather hungry myself."

Harrison nods and reaches in his pocket for some change. "Of course not. Here, take whatever you wish."

"Thank you! No matter how good your day is – it's never _really_ good until you've eaten something."

_He starved his kingdom, and yet he still hungered, _Seymour's voice says somewhere in the back of his mind, but the Phantom forces himself to ignore it. He focuses on Outis whistling as he picks a snack instead.

"I wish I could be in such a good mood early in the morning," he says.

As a response, Outis laughs. "I have always been quite the early bird. But I have to admit I have an especially good reason to be glad today. You see, some deception was cleared up last night. A little trip to the cemetery was all it took to do so. We no longer are the only ones looking for a certain spy," he adds, picking up a chocolate swirl. "We'll see more of Prosecutor Blackquill, I wager. He now has a personal interest in the case he lacked before. He might just do most of the work for us, actually."

A icy hand seems to grip the Phantom's heart and squeeze as Harrison raises an eyebrow in polite confusion. "I'm afraid I'm not following," he says.

_This is another hallucination. It must be. Please, let it not be real_.

But it's no hallucination, because the next moment Outis gives him a pat on the shoulder that feels dreadfully _real_. "I'll explain you everything in the CEO's office this afternoon. See you then, and thanks for the snack," he adds before giving his chocolate roll a bite and walking past him, humming a tune to himself.

The Phantom stands still for several more moments, his mind still struggling to catch up with what he was just told, not quite knowing whether he feels like screaming or laughing himself into hysteria.

* * *

"Empty? What does it mean, _empty_?"

Even as the words leave her mouth, Athena can tell it's a very stupid question: empty means empty, of course. Still, she can't help herself: what Simon just told her was so unexpected it feels like being punched. How can it be? How could it happen?

Simon looks away, his mouth a grim line. "Precisely what it means. No body was found inside. We suspect body snatching, as the grave was damaged upon my arrival," he says. But the emotions raging in his heart – anger, hurt and even some measure of fear and hope – make it clear to her that there may be more to it than what he's letting by.

"Body snatching, or... what else?" she asks, her voice shaking slightly. The way Simon avoids her gaze is enough to tell her what the _other_ possibility may be.

But it cannot be, she thinks numbly. It cannot be. They saw him die – saw him on the gallows, saw him fall. He's gone, he must be. He can't have- he wouldn't have-!

"... That's what we're here to find out," he says, and finally looks up to Maya, who's sitting in silence on the office's couch. She's the only one in the room with them: Mr. Wright took everyone else to get bowl of Eldoon's noodles as soon as Simon briefly explained they needed Maya for a channeling and that it would be best if no one but himself and Athena was present.

"My apologies for asking you such a favor this abruptly, Fey-dono," he adds. "I wouldn't have if this wasn't... truly important."

Maya smiles. "Hey, no problem. I mean, I wouldn't be much of a spirit medium if a channeling was that much of a deal, right? Years under icy waterfalls had to pay off at some point. That, and Nick is getting me burgers for later," she adds before looking down at the picture in her hands – the Phantom's picture from the police's archives – and sobering up.

She stares down at the picture for several long moments before she closes her eyes and her head drops forward, hair hiding it from view.

Athena holds her breath and reaches to put her hand on Simon's, wondering what she's even going to say when Maya looks back at them and it's not _Maya_ anymore. They may face LaRoche again in mere moments and she's not even sure what they'd tell each other, how they would even explain the channeling, and... and what would LaRoche think? Would he be glad to see them? Would he-

And then Maya straightens herself, and it's still her – the focused expression now having changed into an utterly confused one. She blinks before looking back at them, then she sighs and slowly shakes her head before putting the Phantom's picture down.

Athena can hear Simon's heart skipping a beat, but he's still letting nothing show. As for her... no, is all she can think. It can't be. It cannot _be_!

She's snapped out of her denial by Maya's next words. "I... I'm sorry. I'm unable to channel him," she says, folding her hands on her lap and looking back at Simon – whose expression is still unreadable. And yet Athena can sense his disbelief turning to fury and pain and... and something else, something that isn't happiness but is still somewhere along the same spectrum.

_You never wanted him dead_, Athena thinks. _Neither of us did_.

_He fooled us. He fooled both of us._

_No. It can't be_.

_Thank you. For... for giving me a name, for making me someone. Thank you for not giving up on ... I'm sorry. For what it's worth, and I know it's worth less than nothing, I'm sorry_.

_Was it fake, all of it? Yet another act?_

_No. No, it can't be. His emotions were real, I know they were!_

"... I see," is all Blackquill says. Athena bites her lower lip.

"Maybe... maybe this isn't the right place, or you're too tired, or...?" she says weakly, but Maya slowly shakes her head.

"No. I'm afraid... it _could_ have been like that a few years ago, but now that I've mastered the technique I never fail, no matter the circumstances," Maya says, and turns back to Simon with an almost apologetic look. "The only possible reason why I may have failed to channel his spirit is that he's... well, he's not dead."

Her statement is followed by several moments of silence, then Simon stands up. His expression is stony, his hands balled into tight fists, the storm in his heart still raging.

"He will be when the time comes for him to cross swords with me again," he says, his voice quivering with anger, then he turns and leaves the room without another words to either of them.

Athena wants to call back for him, but she can't make her voice work: she just sits there in silence, her head spinning and her chest aching, not even knowing what she's feeling right now.


	9. Erysichthon

_A/N: Man, this chapter got so long it's insane. And it was supposed to get even longer, but I decided to let a scene slide at the beginning of the next one. It would have been just too long if I didn't. I have so little control over my own writing it's ridiculous._

* * *

"You're _joking_, right?"

The Yatagarasu's exclamation – it's not easy to catch her by surprise, but what the Phantom just told her _did_ catch her by surprise – is met with a scoff.

"Very much unlike you, I'm no jester," he says, his voice flat. "Blackquill knows I'm alive, or at the very least that the grave bearing my- LaRoche's name is empty. This _Outis_ has seen to it," he adds, and some bitterness makes it in his otherwise flat tone. It's not surprising: the Yatagarasu knows this is exactly what the Phantom hoped to avoid by faking his death. He had hoped to give Blackquill a chance to move on, and to keep him from getting himself in danger by pursuing him. Well, didn't that just fail spectacularly: Blackquill will be back on his trail like a hound, and will likely put himself in danger in the process.

"So Outis wasn't wrong. It's really you he's after," she says, biting her lower lip. That's not too bad yet, not as far as he doesn't know who the Phantom is exactly impersonating right now... but right now, the main worry is another. "There is no way _they_ won't know your grave was searched and found empty," she finally says.

"... I know," is all the Phantom says. There are a few moments of silence, no other sound coming from her watch, and she finally speaks again.

"It will probably not be enough for them to decide you're compromised," she says. "They were ready to break you out of prison if you didn't insist on staging your death first. They don't _care_ if people know you're alive – what matters is that they never know who you work _for_. And, well, that they never catch you. But it's not like they have to know someone from within YggdraCorp knows you're involved, right?" she adds. Unless Outis is a complete idiot – and so far he really doesn't seem to be one – he surely didn't let Blackquill know who it was he was talking with. A good old anonymous call, most likely; they never fall out of fashion.

"True enough," the Phantom says, his voice still flat, then, "I'll get going. The meeting is in a few minutes; I should know more of what's going on after it."

Oh, she thinks, right. The meeting with the executives. "Send out a signal if anything goes wrong," she says.

The Phantom doesn't bother to reply before ending the communication, leaving her to stare down at her watch, her brow furrowed in thought. The Yatagarasu highly doubts the Phantom was as calm as he sounds now when he knew what was up with Blackquill – it's more than likely that he internally freaked out, really – but it looks like he's still got it when it comes to entirely shutting down his emotions. That's good: it will keep him from going insane and blowing his cover in one go.

Just a little longer, she thinks, he needs to hold himself together just a while longer. She knows he's threading on thin ice, with Blackquill now back on his trail and Outis clearly knowing he must be involved, but she's rather confident he can pull this off at least as long as it takes for them to know what YggdraCorp is precisely fiddling with. Once they know, they'll report about it and, most likely, will be assigned to another mission. The problem with Outis will be solved, then.

_But not the problem with Blackquill_.

Even though it's not _her_ Blackquill is after, the thought is enough to make her frown. If Blackquill is anything like she thinks he is, he will not give up easily – no more easily than Lang would. He'll keep looking for the Phantom even after the matter with YggdraCorp is over with, she's sure, snooping around where he shouldn't and generally being a nuisance... a nuisance some may want to be rid of at some point.

And she knows by now that there is _nothing_ the Phantom wouldn't do to keep a such thing from happening.

_He'll walk back in prison with his own two legs before he lets Blackquill get himself killed to pursue him_.

That's not something she has to worry about too much: as a high-ranking Interpol agent, Lang is far more protected than a prosecutor could ever be. Not impossible to kill, of course, but less likely to be downright murdered... and in any case, the threat of death is something he's never quite rid of regardless whether or not he's pursuing _her_ specifically. It's something she knows, and she can live with. The Phantom... not so much.

But then again, she thinks, there is nothing she can do about that. Blackquill pursuing the Phantom is likely to become an issue, but they'll deal with it at a later time. YggdraCorp's business is what they must focus on... namely on this toxin the Phantom mentioned, what it does and what they're planning to do with it.

The Yatagarasu looks up to take a look around. The lab is almost empty, for most people are currently on a break and Mary Goround hardly ever takes any. It's fine with her, though – it allowed her to rig several phones just in case, and to use one of their computer to hack into their database. Sadly, neither accomplished much: nothing relevant was revealed through any communication between the management and the lab, and it's clear that the high-ups in there use a completely different system.

All in all this assignment has been rather boring so far, with the Phantom getting most of the excitement. Too bad he cannot appreciate it, she thinks, glancing at the computer again. She stares at it for a few moments before a sly smile curls her lips.

She's kind of bored and, come to think of it, she hasn't hacked into the Interpol's network in a while.

* * *

Ten minutes left before the meeting. Just enough time for a cigarette, Outis is pleased to note. He quite likes it when everything fits in place like that; a man can't work without a few small breaks to enjoy every now and then, after all.

Johan – the Phantom – could, but then again he could hardly be considered a man. Monsters don't have the same requirements people have, after all. Or at least, that's what Outis used to think. But he was wrong, so very wrong. Johan never was anything more than a man, no matter how unique. A man in a monster's hide rather than a monster in a man's skin.

There was humanity buried deep within, and he failed to see it. He failed to see the boy he shot, failed to realize he still _lived_. He failed to kill him more than just once, it seems, and he's got himself to blame for it.

Outis tilts back his head and releases some smoke. "Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me," he mutters. And he is ashamed alright... but at least he can make sure there won't be a third time.

He's there, he knows he's there; he wouldn't be surprised to know he's hiding behind the mask of one of the people he already spoke with. That would be his style, after all: replacing a high ranking member of whatever company he's targeting in order to gain all the information more easily. Why, he may even be one of the people who'll attend the meeting. None of them showed any sign of suspicious behavior, but that means little: damaged as he may be, good old Robb is still highly trained. He wouldn't slip easily.

Of course, Outis could easily find out during the meeting: he'd only need to try taking off each and every of their faces, after all. But he won't do it; it would be no fun. There are other ways to unmask him without him even realizing he's been found. This game of cat and mouse is quite amusing: if he is among them, then he _knows_ that Outis knows of him and that he was the one to set Blackquill after him. But – Outis is certain – he cannot tell _who_ he is either: his name, face and voice are no longer the same.

When the time comes to end him, though, he'll make sure that he knows _exactly_ who is... and what he _did_.

* * *

'Johan' knows what Umber is going to do several moments before the back of his hand hits the side of his face. Still, he doesn't move, doesn't try to avoid it, doesn't even _flinch_. He knows he would be expected to under normal circumstances – that tensing up or moving out of harm's way is everyone's natural reaction – but he's not everyone. He's no one at all. He was ordered not move, and he doesn't. It's simple as that.

There is some pain, obviously, but not much; the blow isn't strong enough to break his lip. His head whips backwards, but that's it. When he looks back at Umber in silence, his expression is still as flat as before.

Umber smiles and reaches to grasp his hair, tilting his head back. The grip is tight and there is discomfort, but he lets nothing show. "Who are you?" Umber asks.

_No one,_ 'Johan' thinks. "I am not," he drones , eyes fixed on the ceiling. There is a laugh, and Umber lets go of his hair. 'Johan' looks back at him, and the next moment Umber's hand shoots out again to hit him. His head whips backwards again and this time there is the taste of blood in his mouth, but he doesn't flinch nor does he say anything. Umber smiles at him and reaches for him again, but this time he just cups his cheek.

"See, _this_ is what sets you apart from everyone else," he says, his thumb brushing over a cheek that, 'Johan' assumes, must be starting to bruise. "Mind over matter. This," he adds, giving another light smack at his face, "this is nothing. You face is worth _nothing_. Your body is a tool. All that matters, all that will _ever_ matter, is your mind." He reaches for his head, holds it in both his hands. Their foreheads almost touch, and he's still smiling. "A clear mind. No emotions, no mindless impulses. Logic and control. You are _nothing_ – nothing but _this_. There is nothing else, nothing to conceal as we have do. A clean slate. You'll be perfect."

'Johan' looks back at him and nods as much as his grip allows him, faintly wondering how come he insists on calling him 'boy'. He doesn't know exactly how old he is, but he assumes he's in his mid-twenties and thus well past the age to be called a _boy_. "Does that mean you're not, as you put it, _perfect_, sir?" 'Johan' asks.

If the question angers him, Umber conceals it perfectly. He lets go of his head with an amused chuckle. "Ah, you've got me there," he says. "No, I'm not like you, my boy. Will never be," he adds, and his eyes linger on the bullet scar on his forehead. "But nothing keeps far from perfect people from creating a masterpiece. I highly doubt Michelangelo looked much like his David, after all."

'Johan' has no clue what the long-dead sculptor looked like, nor does he care to ask. "I guess not," he says, because he can tell it's the answer Umber expects. The answer seems to satisfy him, for he nods and smiles at him again before reaching to tilt up his chin and lightly run a thumb over his swollen lower lip.

"Put some ice on that. It should be fine tomorrow."

"Yes, sir," 'Johan' says, and he thinks that's it. Still, Umber stares at his lip and then at his forehead for a few more moments before pulling back his hand.

"We're done for today," is all he says before he turns to leave.

'Johan' stares at his retreating back for a few moments, expressionless, thinking of nothing.

* * *

While ripe of information the Phantom listens to intently – and records every word of, as his watch has that function as well – the first half of the meeting is rather uneventful. Outis sits at the same table as all of them, executives and high-ranking employees alike, but he doesn't speak at all for a time: he just observes everyone. It would be unnerving, if the Phantom was allowing himself to be unnerved in the first place. But Harrison Fire would have no reason to worry about him, and therefore he can't show worry, either.

So he pretends he's not even there and listens to every word with rapt attention.

What YggdraCorp has been illegally developing and testing is, indeed, a toxin – and a powerful one to boot.

"Erysichthon can be absorbed by the body in several ways," the company's chief systems designer is explaining. "It can be drank as a liquid or breathed in as a gas; it can be injected for faster effects. Either way, the toxin will find its way to the bloodstream. Once there, it will start the autolytic cell destruction by prompting the body's enzymes into breaking down the affected cells. The body will eat itself. Putrefaction follows soon after. In other words," the man adds with a pleased smile, "the subject will rot alive. Depending on the amount of toxin involved and the means of administration, death can occur within minutes or hours. The fast rate of putrefaction that keeps going after death would make it extremely difficult for a time of death to be estimated."

There, the Phantom thinks, there it is – the reason why the bodies of the politician in Reijam and Stan Doff were in such a state to make everyone assume their death happened much earlier than it actually did. But of course, they cannot have created the toxin simply to kill a few people. There must be more to it, much more... and, while the CEO doesn't say much over the toxin's potential as a mass weapon, she _does_ say something rather worrying. Apparently, YggdraCorp is up to sell it to the highest bidder... and several organizations are interested.

When Dr. Dote names a few of them, the Phantom isn't at all surprised to recognize the names: it's all terrorist organizations he knows of or ran into before. He actually infiltrated a couple of them once, something that didn't make them happy at all and put him on their black list pretty quickly. Knowing those people as he does, he has no doubt they're all drooling after the toxin like mutts.

However unsurprising to hear, their names make him feel cold. If those people are involved, then the danger for Blackquill is even higher than he thought.

The thought of Blackquill – Blackquill, knowing he's alive and cursing him as he resumes his hunt, whatever peace of mind he gained in these two years shattered – causes something in his chest to ache, and he's quick to shut down all emotion and keep his attention focused on what the CEO is now saying.

Which is more information than he could possibly hope for. An auction on a cruise ship, a week from now, and everyone in the room will attend; the upper three passenger decks will be entirely reserved to them and to potential buyers. It looks like the Phantom won't have to take another identity to keep looking into this; the Yatagarasu will probably need to, however.

The choice of a cruise ship is peculiar, but it does make sense: it would allow them to carry on the auction with a low risk of being interrupted, and they would be able to know beforehand who exactly will be on board... unless, of course, someone unexpected weaseled their way in.

Which is, obviously enough, what Outis was hired to deal with.

"... This is about all. I do apologize for keeping the details from some of you until now. I wished to make sure everything was settled before I did," Dr. Dote is saying. Her words are met with nods from everyone else in the room – except Outis, the Phantom notices – and one of them, the chief of security, speaks up.

"What of the spies from Reijam? What if they try to get on board? How will we know?"

There is a chortle, and everyone's attention turns to Outis for the first time. Outis – who was leaning back on his seat with his head tilted backwards, balancing a pen on the bridge of his nose – straightens himself and clears his throat. "My apologies. It's not my intention to be rude, but you appear to be unaware of how this game is played. If they _try_ to get on board? They _will_ be on board if so they wish; they seem skilled enough to do that. And at least one of them," he adds with a smile, his eyes slowly moving from person to person, "is a true master of disguise. How will you know? You will not. But_ I_ will. That's why you hired me, isn't it?"

"You claim you know who one of them is, and yet you won't tell us," the chief of security says with a scowl. He doesn't seem to like Outis much; the Phantom suspect he sees the act of hiring a spy for added security a slight against him. "He could have infiltrated the company alre-"

"It's not a matter of _could have_," Outis cuts him off. "If he wanted to, he _did_. Chances are that he's already within these walls," he adds with a half-smile, and once again his eyes move from one person to the other. "It's only a matter of finding out whose identity he has taken. And I will, soon. Don't worry."

"But who is this spy?" the CEO asks, frowning. "You have yet to tell me as much."

Outis bows his head. "True enough. Do tell me – has any of you heard of a spy known as the Phantom?"

"The Phantom?" one of the executives repeats, looking rather incredulous. "The one involved with the incident at the GYAXA space station? You must be mistaken, he was executed two years-"

"His death was faked," Outis cuts him off. "I inspected his grave personally, and... had someone else inspect it," he adds with a smirk. Something in the Phantom's chest tightens. "It's empty. No body was ever there at all. I'm certain the police will keep quiet about this for a time, but at this point they know it as well. The police, likely the Interpol, and a certain prosecutor who doesn't seem to be able to let his phantom go."

There is a twinge of something in the Phantom's chest, something he identifies as anger before he forces himself to smother it. "The Interpol was here as well, along with Prosecutor Blackquill," he says instead, Harrison's voice perfectly calm. "From what you told me earlier, I seem to understand that you made sure they would know the Phantom is still alive so that they'd chase after him on your – _our_ – behalf. Is that so?"

Outis nods. "Yes. The Phantom has one great weakness, and that weakness is Prosecutor Blackquill. Having to be on the lookout for him is certain to put him under pressure. As you perhaps will recall me mentioning, the Phantom already cracked once. Pressure – the _right_ kind of pressure – might just break him again."

He may not be too far off, the Phantom thinks. It's not a pleasant thought.

"But if the police and the Interpol know, won't they be after him as well?" Dr. Dote speaks up. "Their hunt for this spy may just bring them straight to YggdraCorp, _again_."

It's a more than valid point, but Outis waves his hand as though it's a silly concern. "That might happen, yes. But you don't need to worry: should that happen, I'll know in advance. Focus on the auction and let me handle the rest. After all, that's what I'm paid for," he adds with a smile.

But there is something about that smile that makes the Phantom's stomach clench.

_He doesn't care,_ he realizes. _He doesn't care whether or not the police or the Interpol become a problem for the company, just as Blackquill wouldn't care for his own safety while chasing me. He doesn't care if the company is taken down. He doesn't care about the money. Catching me is his only goal._

The realization makes him feel as though his insides have knotted. Why is he so fixated with him? How have they met? Has he crossed him? He must have. But he's crossed so many people, so many he can hardly remember most of them. And he certainly doesn't remember this man, regardless how well he seems to remember him. Who _is_ he?

_No one_, a voice whispers in the back of his mind, but it's not one he can place, and the next moment he's forced to turn his attention back to the meeting. They're discussing the security measures, they're to take on the ship during the auction, and it's something he'd do well to listen very, very carefully.

* * *

It isn't often that the Yatagarasu doesn't know what to say; it's even rarer for her not to know what to think. But for a few moments, as she stares at the screen of the computer she used to hack into the Interpol's network and take a look at the status of their investigation on YggdraCorp, her brain seems to freeze.

Most of what she found is no surprise: the Interpol knows of human experiments going on, they raided the facility in Reijam and linked YggdraCorp to it after finding out that Stan Doff was there. Now, of course, they also suspect that the spy known as the Phantom may be involved as well – on the basis of one anonymous call Prosecutor Blackquill received. No, none of it is unexpected.

But then there is something else, the result of DNA testing on some traces of blood found in the facility in Reijam – and that is what leaves her speechless for several moments.

_Name: Unknown.  
Known Aliases: Calisto Yew; Shih-na  
Last known location..._

He knows, she realizes after a few moments spent staring at the words on the screen, unable to process them. Lang _knows_. He knows she was in Raijam; he knows she's involved, he's known it well before he showed at YggdraCorp. And she... she gave him a message.

_No need to worry_, she told the Phantom. _He wouldn't link that to me. It's not like he knows I'm involved._

Except that he does. Whoops.

"_Pfff-!"_

There are other people in the lab, and the Yatagarasu is quick to slap a hand over her mouth and turn her laugh into a coughing fit. She waves off the startled – and slightly worried gazes – of her _coworkers_ in the lab and, after getting the computer on standby mode, quickly leaves the lab to make her way to the toilet.

And, once she's there, she laughs until her sides hurt. Lang is after her, and he didn't even realize it was _her_ he was speaking with days ago, when she slipped the message in his pocket.

This is just too rich, and it doesn't even matter that he may actually catch her, that this may be the end of her: she hasn't felt this excited for a long while, and she's sure that, as long as that idiot doesn't get himself killed, she won't mind whatever outcome there may be.

* * *

"... Athena?"

Athena lifts her gaze when Trucy's voice reaches her, along with the sound of a door opening. She smiles weakly, reaching up to wipe her eyes. "Hey, Trucy. Pearl," she greets them, straightening herself. Apollo's hand, which has been resting on her back for the last several minutes, retreats.

Trucy smiles back, but her smile is a bit weak, too – at least until her attention turns on Apollo. "Taking advantage of a sad moment, Polly? That's not nice," she says. Her words' effect is immediate as it is predictable: Apollo immediately starts sputtering and saying that no, wait, she got it all wrong.

That gets a chuckle out of Athena, though she feels kind of bad for poor Apollo. He's been comforting her since after Maya and Mr. Wright left the office, and she's grateful for that. She never wanted LaRoche to die, but now she feels so _stupid_ for trusting him as much as she did. Maybe she was wrong about him, after all.

And Apollo – the one who lost his best friend to the Phantom, the one who was so opposed to her defending him in court, the one who'd have more reasons than anyone else to tell her that _he told her so_ – hasn't been anything but supportive despite his own anger at the news Robert LaRoche faked his death and escaped. His best friend's murderer escaped punishment and is on the loose, but his first concern was supporting her. She can't thank him enough for this.

_It wasn't your fault. You couldn't know. He lied to you, lying is what he _does_ – you only wanted to help_.

"How are you feeling?" Pearl asks while Trucy and Apollo's banter keeps going. Athena sighs.

"Kind of stupid," she admits. "But... I'll be alright, I think. I'm worried for Simon," she adds. She knows very little of the case he's involved with and next to nothing about how the call he received about LaRoche's grave relates to it all, but she knows that more than one person died and that the Interpol is involved. It's a messy case, and it can turn out to be dangerous – as everything involving LaRoche seems to be.

_He won't rest until he finds him. What if he never does? Will he keep chasing a phantom all his life?_

Pearl bites her thumbnail, a worried frown on her face. "Do you think the Phantom could harm him?"

Athena shakes her head. "No. No, it's not that," she says, and she means it. She doesn't think LaRoche would harm Simon, she _knows_ he won't: that is one certainty about him that hasn't left her yet... but it doesn't mean Simon is safe. "It's just... he could get himself in some sticky situation to look for him. It happened before."

"But he's more prepared than he was before," Trucy points out, apparently having grown bored with teasing Apollo – who is now more than slightly red in the face. "I'm sure he'll be able to handle it just fine. It's the two of you who need who need some vacation. And here you go, just a moment..." Before anyone can say anything else, Trucy pulls out her magic panties and produces something out of them – two slips of paper that look like... are those tickets? "Ta-daa! Here are your cruise tickets! One for you and one for Polly!"

"Cruise tickets?" Athena repeats, taken aback. She knows Trucy is going to have her own magic show on a cruise ship next week – a big hit for her, and she's been working hard to get her number ready – and Pearl is going to be there as her assistant and support... but until now Athena thought the extra tickets Trucy got were supposed to be for Mr. Wright and Maya. For a 'romantic cruise' while Trucy had her show, as Pearl put it.

"But... aren't those for Mr. Wright and Miss Fey?" Apollo asks, just as taken aback as Athena is.

Trucy shrugs. "That was the plan, yeah. But, well, after what happened we figured out you two may need a break. Daddy and Maya agreed, too. So take the tickets!" she adds, pushing them in Apollo's hand. "You'll be coming with me and Pearl and enjoy the cruise while we put up the greatest magic show ever!" she adds, reaching to put an arm around Pearl's shoulder and giving her a quick peck on the cheek. Pearl blushes a bit, and leans her head on Trucy's shoulder.

Apollo frowns a bit. "Trucy, are you sure? I know this is important to you – it's a big thing for your career, and I know you really wanted Mr. Wright to be there..."

Trucy shrugs. "Doesn't matter. Daddy already said it's okay and hey, he's been there for all my magic shows so far. I think you should come. Really. It will be fun and... aww, Athena, don't cry!"

Athena sniffles a couple of times before smiling. "Thank you so much, both of you," she says, still feeling a bit overwhelmed. This is yet another reminder of why this office is the best place she could possibly end up: the sheer amount of _support_ they give each other. "But... what about your plans for Mr. Wright and Maya?"

That causes Trucy and Pearl to exchange a quick look and smirk.

"No worries, got that covered, too," Trucy says. "With all of us out of the office, daddy will need an assistant for his next case, right? And now she has one! I'm sure it will be just like old times. It will do the trick!"

Pearl sighs dreamily. "Mystic Maya will be his assistant one more time! Just how it's meant to be – Mystic Maya and her special someone! Isn't that romantic?"

Apollo opens his mouth to say something – likely that investigating murders doesn't scream 'romance' to him – but he eventually closes it without saying anything, clearly aware that there would be absolutely no point in arguing over it with Trucy and Pearl over their questionable idea of what's romantic and what isn't.

* * *

"You have a questionable idea of what's amusing and what _isn't_."

The Yatagarasu laughs again, something the Phantom doesn't find amusing at all. For a moment, he wishes he didn't come over at Mary Goround's apartment – but he had to, no matter what. He and the Yatagarasu were to report about their findings, after all... and before that, they had to agree on what they would say and what they'd keep quiet about.

They told them all that they had found out about the YggdraCorp, Erysichthon and the auction that would take place next week, of course. They seemed to be pleased with what they had gathered, and – predictably enough – expected them to be there for the auction and see what the toxin's potential as a weapon was.

"We don't yet know where the toxin is stored, nor how much of it has been produced, nor what the potential precisely is," their contact had said. Neither of them had any idea what they looked like – there was no image showing on the computer's screen, and the voice speaking sounded neither masculine nor feminine. It was always the same, though, ever since the Phantom's first assignment for the government of the United States. "We'll make our move after you find out as much. We cannot take risks. We must make sure we'll be able to seize the whole supply, or this may have been for nothing."

When told about the fact the police and Interpol now knew the Phantom was not dead, their contact hadn't seemed to care much. "As long as it isn't known who you work for, whether or not you're believed to be dead is irrelevant enough," they had said. "We'll work to find out who searched the grave and why, but for now that's it. You're a valuable asset. No measures will be taken unless you're compromised. And, Yatagarasu?"

"Yes?"

"... It appears I have just beaten your Fruit Ninja score. I'm sending you my new top score. I'd like to see you beat that."

The Yatagarasu had grinned. "Hah! Beating it is gonna be a pleasure, Deep Throat."

"I'd like to remind you once again that my code name is _not_ Deep Throat. And, unless you're implying I'm leaking out classified information, it would be a rather unfitting one."

"Hey, I could be implying something _else_ entirely."

"... I'll pretend I didn't hear that. Phantom, how do you precisely deal with her on a daily basis?"

"I pretend I didn't hear half of what she says," the Phantom had said flatly.

"You two are no fun."

"Duly noted," their contact had said. "Is there anything else to report?"

There was, really – they were supposed to report the fact Outis knew the Phantom was involved... and the fact Lang was apparently all too aware of the Yatagarasu's involvement, too. The Yatagarasu was supposed to tell them that the Phantom was dealing with hallucinations that made him unfit for the assignment... but neither of them said anything of the sort. It would result with both of them being removed from the assignment – something the Yatagarasu wanted to avoid – and the Phantom possibly being deemed unable to continue being a spy at all – which might result with his death, regardless what their contact had said.

Of course, keeping quiet with the government doesn't keep them from arguing over it as soon as the communication is over. Not that she's taking the argument seriously.

"Hahaha! You should loosen up. I put a message in his pocket thinking he had no idea I was involved and hey, guess what? He knew! Just like Blackquill knows about you. Don't you _love_ the irony?"

The Phantom stares at her in silence. He knows that, in her own way, she's _glad_ that Lang is after her once again, and so very close. He, on the other hand, doesn't share her excitement. She should know it by now.

"... Okay, right. You don't. Dumb question," she says, but a grin lingers on her lips for a few moments longer before fading. "Look, I've seen what the Interpol's got, and it's not much. It's not enough for Blackquill to get close enough to be deemed a threat and, well... dealt with.

The Phantom scoffs. "Outis chose to involve him solely to put pressure on me. Hell knows what else he could let him know with the sole purpose of making me come out in the open," he says. "He doesn't care about YggdraCorp at all. It's me he wants. Blackquill already _is_ in danger."

"But why? Who is he?"

_That's the million dollars question, isn't it?_

"... I wish I knew," is all the Phantom can say. And he does, he truly does, and he will find out – so that when the moment comes he'll know _whose_ life he's ending.

* * *

"Birdbrain? Hey, birdbrain!"

Seymour recoils a bit, almost dropping the wooden board in his hands. It's a loose board they store most of their stuff under – Seymour's books and the crystal bird Robb got him, Robb's slingshot, some sweets and canned food just in case – because once jammed back in place it's really hard to tell it's loose to begin with. Should anyone get inside, at least they wouldn't be able to get to their stuff.

"What is it?" Seymour asks, busying himself by putting the board back in place. He's been doing that a lot these past few days, just turning his attention to everything but him unless Robb does or says something to make him give him his full attention. It's like he's embarrassed and that's _weird_ and Robb doesn't like it, because Seymour was never embarrassed around him... until that hug Robb is still not sure what to think of.

But now he thinks he has just the right thing to make the awkwardness go away, so he grins a bit and stands closer to Seymour, his hands behind his back. With the board jammed back in place and nothing else to turn his eyes to, Seymour finally stands turns to face him – though he still pretends to focus on rolling up the sleeves of the way too big shirt he's wearing.

That alone is enough to make Robb's grin falter a bit. He clears his throat. "I, uh… got you a thing," Robb says, his hands still behind his back. That's enough to finally makes him look up at him, clearly surprised, and he blinks when he notices how Robb is keeping his hands behind his back.

"A thing?"

"Yeah. I kinda found it, and… well. Found it," he repeats. Seymour doesn't need to know that its mother and siblings were flattened by a car, after all.

Seymour frowns, clearly curious, and tilts his head on one side. And that's good, Robb thinks, a lot better than the odd awkwardness he's showed in the past week.

"What is it?" he asks, squinting as though that can help him look through Robb and to what he's holding behind his back.

Robb grins, his confidence finally back. "A surprise. Now close your eyes and hold out your—"

"Peep! Peep!"

… Stupid duck.

Seymour recoils, eyes going wide. "Is that...?"

Ah well, looks like the surprise element is gone. Robb grins again and holds his hands out before him, to show Seymour the small, bright yellow duckling cradled in his hands. "Yup! I found it-"

"Peep!"

"Shut up. I found-"

"Peep! Peep!"

"C'mon!" Robb protests. Won't this thing let him speak? "I found it – shut it – while it was trying to cross the street. It was alone, so I thought I could as well take it- are you _listening_ to me?"

No, Seymour is not listening to him at all: he's too busy cooing at the duck, apparently. Robb snorts when Seymour just takes the duckling out of his hands and cradles it in his own before sitting on the mattress they sleep on and proceeds to coo at it some more.

… Well. At least he likes the duck. Great. Awesome. "I'm still here, you kno-"

"Hush! Look, it's sleepy!" Seymour cuts him off, causing Robb to roll his eyes. Oh, _now_ it's sleepy, right after ruining the surprise and peeping like it was dying while he tried to speak.

_Great pick, Robb. A stupid duck with a stupid timing_.

Still, Seymour looks really fascinated with it and he wants him to look, so he may as well do so. Robb goes to sit next to him on the mattress and looks down at the duckling in Seymour's hands: it's resting its head on one of Seymour's thumbs and it looks like it's struggling and failing to keep its eyes open and yeah, Robb guesses that's actually kinda cute. "Congrats, mom. It's a duck," he says, and Seymour chuckles.

"Where did you find it?"

"Near the flea market, the one by the pond. It was trying to cross the street. Its mother was nowhere to be seen," he adds. It's a lie, but he doesn't want to upset Seymour. "Figured it had no chance on its own, so... yeah. We can keep and feed it until it's older. So, how are you gonna call it?"

Seymour frowns in thought for just a moment before smiling. "Alphonse," he says, lightly rubbing the duckling's head with a thumb.

Robb blinks. "... Why Alphonse?" he asks. That sure wouldn't be a name he'd think up for a pet duck.

"It's for Alphonse Milne-Edwards," Seymour says, and Robb supposes that should mean something to him. It doesn't, but he doesn't mention it. It's actually very likely Seymour mentioned this guy at some point, but Robb just wasn't listening and missed it. He's not going to let him know that.

"Oh. Right. Sure. Fits just right," he says instead, and reaches to lightly scratch the duckling's head with a finger. It's definitely asleep now, he notices, and again he has to admit it's kind of cute. "... Okay, here's the deal – if it starts peeping at night then it's gonna have to sleep in some other-" he starts, turning to Seymour, and he trails off when he realizes that he's not looking at the duckling anymore: he's looking right at him, it occurs to Robb that they're actually really, really close.

And Seymour is just looking at him, biting his lower lip and saying nothing.

"Er," Robb says, and suddenly he's feeling a lot more awkward than before and maybe he's supposed to move away and say something, but he's kinda glued to the spot and he has no idea what to say and... and...

And then Seymour scowls as though he just made up his mind over something really important, and leans over just a bit, just enough to press slightly chapped lips on Robb's and wait a moment, is he _kissing_ him?

… Well. _Damn_. Robb is still trying to process the situation when Seymour pulls back, his face crimson. Robb knows he's supposed to say something, but for a few moments he can only gape, and Seymour bites his lower lip again before looking down.

"Sorry, I though... I should... never mind. I'll go get a basin or something for Alphonse," he mumbles, looking down at the duckling before standing.

He's already taken a few steps away when Robb snaps out of his confusion and realizes he's got to say _something_. He doesn't know what exactly, but he doesn't want to let Seymour leave looking that miserable, so he jumps to his feet and blurts out the first thing that comes to his mind.

"_I liked it!"_

That causes Seymour to stop in his track and turn to look back at him, blinking quickly in surprise, and in a moment Robb is absolutely certain that his face is going to catch fire.

"I-I mean..." he stammers, thinking quickly for something else to say, but his brain just doesn't seem to work properly, or his mouth is spewing out stuff without notifying his brain, or both. "I didn't mind! Like, it was okay. I mean, it's not that... I kinda... I mean, it was quick, so... I, uh... can I..."

_Can I start over? _"... Can I have another one?"

Seymour stares at him for a few more moments before the look of surprise fades into incredulity first and then in what's the biggest smile Robb can recall ever seeing on his face. He looks kind of goofy, really, in a way he rarely does, and his blush seems to deepen a moment before he puts the sleeping duckling down on a bunch of clothes Robb left on the floor and then walks back up to him.

Robb tilts up his head just a bit, because even though he's still thinner than him Seymour is starting to get taller. Still, when they're face to face, Seymour hesitates. "Uh... you should close your eyes," he says.

Robb blinks. "... Why?" he asks. He didn't have his eyes closed a minute ago, anyway.

"I don't know. But I think that's how it works. People always do in books and movies," Seymour says, and Robb has to admit he has a point. It's not like either of them knows anything at all about kissing anyway, so at least books and movies are something to go by.

Or maybe Seymour just wants him to close his eyes because then he'll feel less awkward, but it's not like Robb feels like objecting to that, either: he's feeling really awkward himself, but he _still_ wants another kiss.

"Okay, okay," he mutters before closing his eyes and pursing his lips a bit because he guesses how it's done and he probably looks kinda stupid and he _really_ hopes Seymour closed his eyes as well. But the fact he can't see him helps a bit with the awkwardness, so he squeezes his eyes more tightly shut and waits.

He doesn't have to wait much, because a moment later Seymour his giving him another kiss on the lips. Robb heard that a proper kiss is more complicated than just a meeting of lips, but to be honest he doesn't know what else he could _do_ and apparently neither does Seymour, so for now they can just settle for this. It doesn't feel bad at all anyway, and lasts longer than the first one – that was just a peck – but it's not long _enough_. So when Seymour pulls back Robb abruptly moves to give him a kiss of his own.

_Too_ abruptly. And he misses.

"Ow!" Seymour yelps, rearing back and reaching to cup his hands over his nose.

"Sorry! Sorry!" Robb says quickly, mentally kicking himself for being so rash. "Is it broken? Are you hurt?"

Seymour grimaces, hands still on his nose, but he shakes his head. "No, don't think so. It just kinda hurts," he says, and that's a relief, because getting a doctor to take a look at a broken nose wouldn't be easy for them.

"I can kiss it better," Robb blurts out, and while part of him wonders where _that_ came from he can't help but feel a bit smug when Seymour blushes a deeper red. Robb doesn't really think that kissing it would make it any less sore – that's just what you say to little children – and neither does Seymour, he's sure. But he just gives that goofy smile again and keeps still when Robb kisses his nose, as promised.

Plenty of times.

* * *

"You ran away. You left me to die."

Face burrowed in his hands, the Phantom lets out a low keening noise. His nails sink into fake skin, for he doesn't allow himself to take off the mask even at night now that he knows Outis and Blackquill are both after him. It's clearly doing his mental state no good, because he's hallucinating again.

How long must he stay without dream suppressants before the side effect wears off?

"Leave me," he says, fully knowing that there is no one there and that his own mind is to blame. His mind, the dream suppressants he's taken for too long. His voice comes off as a weak plea.

"You want to forget all about me again, don't you?" Seymour's voice asks again.

The Phantom shuts his eyes tighter. "No," he chokes out. "Never."

_Don't forget me. Please, _please_, don't forget me._

"... Good. See that you don't. I won't let you forget. You killed me, Robb."

The Phantom keeps his eyes shut and keeps breathing in and out, slowly, as he was trained to do. In and out. In and out. Mind over matter. There is no one in there. Mind over matter. Breathe. In and-

"You killed me, Fool Bright." Blackquill's voice is like a spear of ice through his chest, and for several moments the Phantom cannot breathe – no matter how aware he is of the fact this is not real, this is all in his mind, Blackquill is not there at all and he was never killed.

_Not yet. He was not killed yet. He may be if he keeps pursuing you, and you know he will_.

"No," he rasps. "This was never... you were never supposed to know. You were supposed to be _safe_."

"I would be if you faced death as you promised you would. Now face _me_. Look what you have done."

He shouldn't look, the Phantom knows it. He shouldn't because there is nothing there, because whatever he'll see is pure hallucination, because looking will do him no good. But then Blackquill's voice barks that order again – "Look at me!" – and he can't keep himself from tearing his hands off his face—  
_not his face this is not his face and neither is the one beneath the mask, his true face is gone for good_  
—and glancing across the room, to see what his mind is going to show him.

He expects to see Blackquill, but he does not; at the foot of the bed, pale as death and with a bleeding hole in his forehead, sits Seymour. There is no expression on his face. Blackquill is nowhere to be seen.

"You'd rather see him, wouldn't you?" Seymour says. Blood comes out of the corner of his mouth, so dark it seems almost black. His lips are blue with death. It's too much for the Phantom. He shuts his eyes again.

"_Leave_," he almost begs. It can't be too long, he thinks, the hallucination will be over soon, it must, _please_-

"Fool. Fool... Bright."

Blackquill's voice startles him, and causes him to open his eyes without thinking – something he regrets a moment later, as he stares at Blackquill's pale face staring at him from where Seymour sat moments ago... and at the bleeding hole on his forehead. The sight makes the Phantom's stomach clench and his mind reel, no matter how well he knows that this is all in his mind, all in his _mind_, none of it is real, _none of it_.

"You're not real," the Phantom chokes out, but this time he's unable to close his eyes or turn away. He can't keep himself from staring at Blackquill's pale face, at his empty eyes, at the blood matting his hair and running down his face. "This is not happening."

_Mind over matter. Mind over matter. Mind over-_

"It will. You know this will happen," Blackquill says, and lifts his hands. He's wearing shackles again, only that now they're dripping with blood. "I'll never stop chasing you until I have you – or until _this_ happens. You didn't keep your promise. I was wrong to believe you a man. You ran away like the phantom your are."

_You ran away. You left me to die._

The Phantom reaches up to clamp his hands on his ears. Uselessly so, for the voices he believes he's hearing are coming from his own head. He desperately wishes he could truly talk to him, make him understand why he couldn't bring himself to stay, why he lacked the courage to face death as Blackquill wished him to.

The one reason – the _only_ reason – why he ever believed himself capable of facing death as a man was that Blackquill believe he could. He believed in _him_, in his humanity, believed him capable of paying for his crimes with his head held high. As long as Blackquill did, then... the he could believe it, too.

But then he had kissed him, and it had been a mistake, or at least so it seemed back then. Blackquill's disgust and hatred had cut deeper than any blade could, and as Blackquill's belief in him crumbled, so did _his_.

_I'm done with the Phantom. He's of no use anymore. Bring him back to his cell_.

He had accepted the offer, then, he had wanted to keep existing because he couldn't face death on his own. Without Blackquill's support, he simply couldn't _do_ it. He didn't have that kind of courage, not on his own. By the time Blackquill paid a visit to his cell, the day before execution, it was too late for him to even rethink his choice: he had grown too attached to his only chance at living. "You were never supposed to _know_!"

"But I do now. You sentenced me to death."

_Why did you let me die?_

And suddenly the Phantom cannot think, cannot breathe, cannot _see_, cannot tell what is real and what isn't. There is a horrible noise like that of a suffering animal, one he doesn't realize is coming from his own mouth. He tries to turn, blindly groping for something he knows should be on the nightstand; he can't even remember what it is, but he knows he must take it, he must use it, he _must_. Then his hand closes on something small and a button is pressed and that's it, what's what he was supposed to do to call for help.

_Help I need help someone help me please please someone help me make it stop MAKE IT STOP!_

A sob wrecks his chest, and the his own plea is the last thing he's aware of before his mind shuts down.


	10. Thessaly

Whatever it is she'd driving, the Yatagarasu _loves_ speeding. She loves the thrill and the rush of adrenaline to the point chases – there haven't been many in the past two years, but there were a two or three good ones – are her favorite part of any assignment.

Except that this time no one is chasing her, nor she's speeding to get some thrill out of it. As she rushes past yet another red light – good for her that the streets are almost empty tonight – she tries once again to guess what she'll find when she makes it to Harrison Fire's apartment.

When she was awakened by the loud beeping noise coming from one of her earrings on the nightstand, her first thought was that this Outis had somehow managed to identify the Phantom and went to confront him. After all, that SOS signal is only meant to be sent out in situations of imminent danger.

But she could hear no real sounds of struggle from the transmitter, no voices aside from the Phantom's. Nothing but the muffled noises she'd associate with something very different from a fight: a breakdown.

The communication ended abruptly, with the noise of something, likely his watch, being dropped on the ground. As further attempts at contacting him received no answer, the Yatagarasu had to decide what to do.

She knew what protocol expected her to do should the Phantom send out the SOS signal: she was to contact the government right away, tell them they had a situation, and _then_ go check on him with their permission. Of course, she was also to report what happened afterward.

And, obviously, she'll do neither: she didn't contact them about the emergency call, and she won't tell them that the Phantom had a breakdown. Doing so would mean signing his death warrant and ending this mission in one go, and she won't end this assignment until she knows Lang won't risk his neck to find her. Which also means she'll have to make sure the Phantom will be able to keep playing his role in this.

She parks her car – well, Mary Goround's car; not one she'd pick, and it can't go as fast as she'd like – and is upstairs and before Harrison Fire's door before she can even pull out her copy of the keys from her purse. She does so quickly, thought, and opens the door in silence, not knowing how the Phantom may react to her presence should he still be suffering a breakdown, and steps in. The apartment is dark; the lights are off. Still, she reaches up to take off Mary Goround's mask and let it fall on the ground, just in case: she assumes he may react better to her real face, one he's more familiar with.

_Not my real one_, the Yatagarasu thinks, because she too had to go through plastic surgery after _they_ broke her out of prison. But it's the one the Phantom has learned to know as hers, and she hopes it may count for something even if he's beyond reason.

"... LaRoche?" she calls out, using his name for the first time since after his surgery. He's been rejecting that name ever since he faked his death, but maybe he'll react better to the familiarity.

At first there seems to be no sound, but when she steps into the living room she can hear something – a sort of low, continuous whine coming from the bedroom. It grows louder as she approaches the bedroom's door, which is ajar. "LaRoche," she calls out again, but she receives no reply: the whine turns into a hitching breath for a moment, but resumes a moment later.

Well, she thinks before pushing the door open, here goes nothing.

She expected to see a pathetic scene, and a pathetic scene is what she gets. The Phantom is huddled on the floor beside the bed, knees drawn up to his chest, rocking back and forth and clawing at the mask on his face. It's like he wants to take it off, but is no longer able to function enough to simply do so and is trying to rip it to shreds instead. The latex has ripped in more than one point, strips hanging from his face like flaps of skin, and he still keeps scratching at it. His movements are slowed down rather than frantic as she'd have expected: it's as though he's moving underwater, and the low, continuous noise is all that leaves his mouth.

All in all, he looks like he's completely lost his mind. The Yatagarasu has no doubt that something is _off_ with this breakdown; he never suffered any breakdown at all in the two years he worked with her. He's been under pressure lately, with Outis after him, but he's used to this kind of pressure and she doesn't think it would be enough to make him crack. The knowledge Blackquill now knows he's alive has certainly added up, with a kind of pressure he can't bear just as easily... but even that wouldn't be enough to break him, not like this.

But then what else may have happened to him?

The dream suppressants, her mind supplies. And it makes sense, it really does: she's been wondering about that for a while, after all.

_Don't play dumb. It's not _one_pill anymore. You doubled the dose, and it's still not enough. _

_That drug isn't even officially _approved_. It's still experimental. There is no data at all about possible side effects; let alone long term ones._

Well. It looks like there is some data _now_.

The Yatagarasu is about to turn to see if the drug is anywhere around, but she pauses when the Phantom finally speaks – a mournful groan that's certainly not meant for her.

"I'm sorry. It was an accident. I didn't mean to. You were never supposed to know. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I never meant to- no, no! I didn't kill you, I never- NO!"

The Phantom suddenly stands, his breathing ragged, and in the dim light coming from the window the Yatagarasu can see his bare back heaving before he finally tears Harrison Fire's mask off his face and throws it on the ground. It hits the floor with the peculiar slap of latex on tiles, but the doesn't pay it any mind: all she can focus on is the Phantom reaching up to scratch his _own_ skin this time, taking a few staggering steps forward. He gives a strangled noise that sounds like a failed scream, and she's not going to give him time to scream again. If someone hears him and calls the police now, there may be trouble.

"LaRoche!"

That causes the Phantom to freeze before he lowers his hands and turns to look at her. His face, the face that now he has to call his own, is scratched up and streaked with tears. "I... I didn't mean to," he rasps. He seems calm, but it's the calmness that can precede an outburst. The Yatagarasu knows she must thread carefully.

"I know. But it's okay. Blackquill is fine," she says slowly, her hand reaching in her purse again. It closes on a small tube of mascara. "He will be fine."

"They'll kill him," the Phantom says. "YggdraCorp. Whoever we'll investigate next. The government, if he keeps sticking his nose where it doesn't belong. They'll... they'll shoot him like they..." his voice fails him for a few moments, and he staggers backwards. "We shouldn't have been there. Shouldn't have seen. We did. They shot us. They killed him. And they'll do the same to Blackquill, someone _will_ do the same."

"No one will. We'll make sure of it."

The Phantom shuts his eyes and shakes his head. "They'll kill him. _Kill_ him. I should have died. He'd be safe if I just died. I sentenced him to death. I brought him there. They shot him. He called for me, but I ran away. I left him behind," he says, and the Yatagarasu can tell that now it's Seymour he's thinking of. In his addled mind, Simon Blackquill and Seymour Blaxton are one and the same.

The thought of trying to speak to him further doesn't even cross her mind: she can tell he's one moment away from snapping, and she sure wouldn't want to deal with him when that happens. So she just raises the tube of mascara to her lips and, before the Phantom can react, she _blows_.

The Phantom lets out a surprised gasp when the dart hits him right at the base of his neck. He reaches up to tear it out and let it fall on the ground, but that's all he can manage to do: the next moment his knees give in, and he'd fall face first on the floor if the Yatagarasu didn't step forward to support him, ignoring the fact his skin is glossy with sweat and feels cold as ice.

Not that she needs to support him for long: Harrison Fire's bed is right behind him, and leaning him down on it is easy. He's out cold before his head even touches the pillow.

The Yatagarasu pulls back and, after smirking a bit as she looks at the dart on the floor – tranquilizers; never leave home without – she walks up to the closet. It takes her little to find what she's looking for: a few blankets to throw on the Phantom, and a belt.

Make it _two_ belts. Or three. No, make it four. Just to be safe.

* * *

Through the years of his imprisonment, Simon Blackquill has felt many things.

Grief, anger, despair, helplessness – all of it somehow mitigated by the knowledge that Athena Cykes, at the very least, was safe. There had been fear when he thought she may be convicted despite his efforts and sacrifice. There had been hatred against the phantom who took his mentor's life. There had been gratitude – to the Chief Prosecutor for believing in his innocence and aiding him in his hunt for the Phantom, to Athena for her tireless work to help him in return, to Aura for doing everything in her power to stop his execution at the cost of her own freedom... and even to Bobby Fulbright for being so steadfast in his belief he was not the unredeemable monster most people thought he was.

And then, of course, there had been a sense of complete and utter betrayal when Bobby Fulbright had turned out to be the very phantom he has been chasing for years, the very phantom who took the life of his mentor. He had thought of it as the ultimate betrayal: he had thought no betrayal he could possibly suffer could hold a candle to that one.

He was so very, very wrong: Robert LaRoche's betrayal feels infinitely worse. He had no reason to mistrust Bobby Fulbright; he couldn't know who really was behind the huge goofy smiles, the proclaims of justice, the childish pouts. But he had every reason not to trust the Phantom; he had every reason not to trust LaRoche.

And yet he did. He trusted him. He believed him human. He believed the emotions he showed – the pain, the despair, the helplessness, the fear he could relate so well to, even the _regret_ he'd show later on – to be real. And, perhaps most unforgivable of all, he had believed the feelings he had showed for _him_ to be real.

_What I said was untrue, and rather than calling me out on it you answered with more lies. That's... not how I wanted our last meeting to be like._

_Maybe... maybe we should have left it like that instead. Maybe it would have been easier for me to... to walk on the gallows without looking back_

_Don't forget me. Please, _please_, don't forget me._

_Never._

_Thank you. For... for giving me a name, for making me someone. Thank you for for not giving up on me. And... I'm sorry. For what it's worth, and I know it's worth less than nothing, I'm sorry_.

But none of it was real. LaRoche – _the Phantom_ – had uttered those words while knowing full well that he wasn't going to die at all. How long had he been plotting his escape while he pretended that he was man enough to face death, that he was human at all? Yet another act from his part, and Blackquill had fallen for it – again. He had even wanted to be there through what he believed would be the Phantom's last night on Earth, and he had even-!

Blackquill lets out a growl, refusing to dwell any further into the memory of what happened in the Phantom's cell the night before the execution – that _travesty_ of an execution – took place. It will do him no good, and he his hatred burns fiercely enough as it is. No need to rekindle it.

"What does it mean, _gone_?"

His voice is a feral growl, and it's enough to make Detective Gumshoe wince. Still, it doesn't change his answer. "It... it means _gone_, sir. Everything else about the case is still in the folder, but we couldn't find anything regarding the execution. The prison's own copy is... gone as well, sir."

Blackquill's eyes narrow. "So there is no knowing the names of the agents who carried on the execution?"

"I'm afraid not, sir. It's no one who's still working in the precinct or the prison, though. They must have been transferred at some point."

Somehow, that fails to surprise him. "What of the coroner? The one who claimed the Phantom was dead?" he asks. Since the Phantom still lives, it's obvious that the coroner – or the individual who impersonated one – must have been an accomplice. He remembers vaguely a woman with auburn hair, but nothing else: he was too lost in his own grief, too eager to comfort Athena to pay attention to her.

What an utter fool he had been.

"Same thing. It wasn't the usual one, but we have nothing left to tell us... well, who it was."

Again, Blackquill is not surprised. Of course whoever aided the Phantom's escape must have made sure no record was left in case they found out his death was faked. And they had plenty of time to make it disappear: two years' time, with them none the wiser.

"I see," he all but snarls. Part of him wants to lash out at Detective Gumshoe, but he holds back from doing so. Bobby Fulbright – the _real_ Bobby Fulbright – had been his friend, and Gumshoe had been there for the execution, too. He had been there to see the murderer of a friend receive his punishment, much like Justice. The revelation that said punishment may have never been delivered – no one aside from Blackquill himself and the Wright Anything Agency has the certainty, for they know few would be willing to believe spirit channeling possible, let alone proof – hit him hard. Blackquill won't make matters worse for him simply to find a outlet for his own fury. "Leave me. I'll call for you if I need anything else."

As Gumshoe mumbles something and quickly leaves, Blackquill sinks back on his seat and reaches to hold his head in his hands. The _one_ thing he needs now is the Phantom standing before him, so that he can hack him into pieces . He wouldn't even waste words on him, wouldn't spare a moment to listen to that coward's excuses – he'd cut him down where he stands, regardless the consequences. He wants him _dead_, gone from this world.

_No_, a part of him murmurs in the back of his mind, _you do not_.

Blackquill is quick to smother it: trusting the Phantom – _wanting_ to trust him – was a mistake. That monster has proven through facts how there truly was nothing in him to save, despite Athena's hopes and his own.

_I want to believe there may be something worth saving in that abyss he claims he is_.

But they were wrong. There was nothing to save there, nothing worth _anything_. The Phantom fooled him once again... him, and Athena.

Athena, who was willing to believe in him first. Athena, who never denied him her help in finding out what his identity was. Athena, who was willing to defend him, her mother's murderer, at his trial. Athena, who wept for him when the sentence was passed, when he stood at the gallows, when the empty coffin was buried in a grave bearing Robert LaRoche's name.

But then again, he supposes that in a way it's fitting. Even if he had existed, if there had been on point in time when not all of what the Phantom did or said was an act, the man they had both learned to trust died that day.

Robert LaRoche is gone, but the Phantom is still around... and so is Blackquill. He'll find him, he'll find him and cut him down where he-

His cell phone rings, causing him to recoil. He looks down at it, and stills for a moment when he realizes the caller's ID is hidden. An anonymous call, _again_. Blackquill clenches his jaw and takes the call.

"Who in the blazes _are_ you?"

There is a laugh from the other side. "Why, good morning to you, too. You sound like you haven't gotten much sleep since out last chat," a man's voice says from the other side. It's the same as last time, no doubt.

Blackquill's grip on the phone tightens. "Answer my question, or keep those lips of yours still!"

"Why would you want me to stay silent?" the man asks, sounding genuinely curious. "After all, I have given you some useful information. You may have not appreciated what you found, or rather what you _didn't_ find... but I believe it would be polite of you to thank me for the tip."

"Why, you bloody-!"

"He knows you're after him."

That causes Blackquill to trail off and fall quiet for a few moments. "How would you...?"

"That's nothing you should concern yourself about. Not yet, anyway. He knows that you know. That must make him nervous, no doubt. It wouldn't have before, but then again he's not the same anymore. You _broke_ him, you and Miss Cykes. I'm afraid I can't quite forgive you that."

Through the confusion – broke him? Can't quite forgive him? What does it mean by that? – Blackquill feels a sudden pang of anger and worry at the mention of Athena. "Remove Athena Cykes from your mind unless you wish me to remove your head," he snarls into the receiver. "Who _are_ you?"

The man chuckles. "No one of any importance. You'll know by the time this is over, trust me. But it's not the right time yet."

"How do I know it's not _him_, hiding behind another voice as the cowardly dog he is?" Blackquill asks. For all he knows, this might be the Phantom – trying to throw him off himself by making him chase shadows. After all, Blackquill knows he's capable of imitating any voice perfectly. This may not be the same person who told him to check the Phantom's grave.

"You don't," the man says lightly. "But, as I doubt you have any other lead when it comes to the Phantom's involvement with YggdraCorp's business, what's the harm in giving it a try? I have more to tell you."

He has a point there: Blackquill cannot deny that both he and the Interpol are stuck, as no new leads are emerged about YggdraCorp, the Phantom or the Yatagarasu. "Hmph. Enough with your chatter, then. What is it you called to tell me?"

This time, the man doesn't waste time. "There is a cruise ship that will leave the coast next Friday. It's called _Thessaly_. The Phantom will be on board. With whose identity and what for is for you to figure out. Good luck, Prosecutor. I'll see you soon," he adds, and that's all he says before he puts down the phone.

Blackquill stays still for a few moments, the phone still held up against his ear, but this time it doesn't last more than a few moments: after that he's already dialing Lang's number to tell him of the call he received. While he cannot know the information he was just given holds any truth, the man was right: this is the only trail he has, and he'll follow it to the very end – and, hopefully, to the Phantom.

The sooner he catches him, the sooner he'll be able to sleep again without wondering just how hard that wretched coward is laughing at his expenses.

* * *

"Oh, hey. You're awake."

The Yatagarasu's voice is what drags the Phantom back into full consciousness after several minutes of half-awareness, wondering where he is and how come he cannot move. He has to blink a few times before he can put anything to focus, and when he does he realizes he's still lying in bed, with blankets thrown over him... and his hands and legs tied together, apparently. He can't tell what he's been bound with due to the blankets, though. What in the world...?

The Phantom's head throbs, and he lets out a groan before turning to see the Yatagarasu standing in the doorway. She's wearing no mask and she's grinning as usual, but there is something forced about that grin.

"What happened?" he rasps. His throat feels dry as desert. "Why am I bound?"

She shrugs. "You flipped. That's what happened. Good thing it's Saturday. Don't you remember anything of last night?"

He frowns and tries to focus on the previous night, only to grimace when his head throbs. "Little," he finally says, and it's the truth. He remembers what he dreamed; he remembers Seymour was in it, and they... yes, he thinks, choosing to ignore the sudden pain in his chest, he _remembers_. And he remembers waking up. And then... then everything seems to be a black hole, except for a few words that still echo in his mind.

_You ran away. You left me to die._

_You sentenced me to death._

Hallucinations, he thinks. He must have been hallucinating... and he doesn't wish to know more. It's probably for the best that he cannot remember most of it, especially if it was bad enough to cause a breakdown serious enough to make the Yatagarasu restrain him like this. Speaking of which...

"What are you doing here?" he finally speaks again, turning to glance back at her again.

The Yatagarasu blinks. "What, so you don't remember _that_? You called for me. You sent out the emergency signal with your watch," she says. "It was a little past two in the morning. You were, well, stark raving mad. I put you to sleep and tied you up. Just in case. You were hurting yourself."

"Ah," the Phantom says. He has no memory of doing so, but then again he supposes she wouldn't be here now if he hadn't. He gives the belt restraining his wrists a tug. "Release me."

He expects her to laugh, or make him ask again, or tell him to say _please_ – her usual childish antics. But, to his surprise, she just nods steps closer to pull the blanket off him. With it out of the way the Phantom can tell he's been bound with four separate belts – one binding his wrists, one binding his ankles, one around his torso to keep his arms pinned by his sides and a last one just above his knees.

"I'm surprised you didn't muzzle me as well," the Phantom says drily, but something in his stomach clenches. Just how badly did he lose it if she had to tie him up like this?

That causes the Yatagarasu to chuckle as she starts unbuckling the belts to release him. "I was kinda tempted, really. Hannibal Lecter style. Ask me if the lambs have stopped screaming."

"No."

"Hahaha! Still no sense of humor, huh? Good thing I have enough for both. Nice underwear, Dr Lecter."

The Phantom fails to see what's so noteworthy about a pair of white boxers, but he doesn't remark on it. As soon as she's taken the last belt off him he sits up and rubs his wrists, only to pause when his gaze falls on the empty mask on the floor. Harrison Fire's mask. "Why did you take it off me?" he asks. He doesn't like the idea of anyone but himself removing the masks he wears – even people who already know what's beneath.

She shrugs. "I didn't. _You_ did. And I sure hope you have an extra mask of that guy, because you tore this one to sheds to get it off. Why do you think I restrained you?"

"... I see," the Phantom says, not wanting to dwell into the pathetic scene she must have walked into when she reached the apartment."There is no need to worry. I do have another mask."

The Yatagarasu raises an eyebrow. "No need to worry, sure. Are we _not_ going to talk about the fact you broke down and completely lost it?"

"_No."_

"It was the dream suppressants, wasn't it?"

The Phantom can't deny it. Saying otherwise would sound even worse and make it look like he's entirely losing his mind. Not that it isn't a possibility. "It appears so."

She sighs and rubs her temples. It's an exasperate gesture that looks oddly wrong on her. Usually, between the two of them, it's the other way around. "See? I _told_ you it would be trouble. You must stop taking it."

"... I stopped already. A week ago," he says. "As a result, I'm left dealing with both dreams and... and hallucinations. Although none has reduced me to the state you've found me in."

"Whoa, whoa, slow down. There have been _hallucinations_ and you didn't tell me?"

"There was no reason to. I could handle them. No one noticed."

"So it was _daytime_ hallucinations?"

The Phantom keeps his gaze fixed on the wall ahead of him. "As I said, I could handle it."

"You sure couldn't handle this one."

"Then be glad there were no witnesses but yourself."

"The bigwigs would want me to report about this."

"But you won't," he states. He knows for a fact that she will not: they have been through this. If he's deemed unable to keep doing his work – and perhaps even terminated – this assignment will be over with for her as well... and with it the chance to have her odd brand of _fun_ with Lang's involvement.

He expects her to laugh, but – once again – she does not. "... Fine. As long as you don't pull one of these stunts at the wrong time. Where do you keep the masks?"

"In the closet. Fire's mask is in the upper left."

As she goes to fetch him the mask he needs, the Phantom stands. His head hurts some, but it's nothing he can't simply ignore. What makes him pause is a look at the mirror on the opposite wall: his face–  
_not his face this is not his face his face is gone_  
–is crossed by a few scratch marks. It's like he tried to take _this_ face off as well after shredding the mask.

_But I can't. I'll never be able to take off this mask. Nothing but flesh and bone beneath. No more face_.

"... He doesn't have to die, you know." The Yatagarasu's voice snaps him from his thoughts. She's browsing through his masks, an oddly thoughtful frown her face.

"Die...?"

"Blackquill," she clarifies. "His death is not a given. Don't bandage your head before it's broken," she adds before walking up to him and handing him the mask and a bottle of spirit gum. "Here. Need any help?"

He doesn't, obviously, and she would have to be an idiot to really think otherwise, but he doesn't remark on that. "No. I'm fine," is all he says, walking past her and to the bathroom to start putting on the mask.

"See that you don't flip like this at work. You'd be a goner. And even if they didn't kill you, I would have to. Wouldn't be fun," she calls out after him one moment before he shuts the bathroom door behind himself.

When he comes out again a few minutes later she has already left, and Harrison Fire's weekend clothes are already laid down on the bed, ready for him to put on.

* * *

Outis is humming to himself as he ends the call and leans back against the bench he's sitting onto. It's quite a lovely Spring day, and he decided to spend some of it outside. The perks of not having an office job, he thinks as he slips the phone back in his pocket and looks at the other end of the small park. There seems to be a hot dog stand there and he wouldn't mind getting one... but he doesn't quite feel like getting up, either.

Thankfully, the solution is right by: there are two girls sitting together on a bench rather close to his own, one of them with a blue top hat and the other with brown hair tied in loops. They're clearly enough a couple, holding hands and speaking very quietly to each other, the shorter one blushing from time to time.

The very portrait of young love, he thinks. "Hey. Sorry for interrupting, but would you like a hot dog?"

That causes them to stop talking and turn to stare at him. The smaller one with the hair loops seems a bit intimidated; the other one just looks baffled by the random question. She frowns a bit. "... Are you one of those maniacs who walk around in parks?"

The question causes Outis to give a genuine laugh. "Oh my, no," he chuckles. "I meant an _actual_ hot dog. There is a stand right over there and I'd love to get myself one, but my back hurts some and I don't really feel like getting up. Would you mind getting one for me? I'll give you the money to treat yourself to a couple of hot dogs as well, of course."

"... Oh," Top Hat says, looking a bit embarrassed by her assumption. "Heh. Sorry. Sure, we'll get you one!"

Outis smiles. Good kid. "Thanks a lot," he says, handing them a couple of bills. The hot dog issue solved, Outis turns his thoughts back to Blackquill.

_Good luck, Prosecutor. I'll see you soon_.

He smiles to himself. Oh yes, they'll see each other very soon. He has no doubt that Blackquill will move mountains to be on that ship... not that he'll likely need to, with the Interpol to back him up.

Of course, his presence along with the Interpol is very likely to cause a lot of trouble to YggdraCorp. Why, it may even destroy the company – a shame, considering that their paycheck would have been a generous one... but as things are it makes no matter. Nothing truly matters aside from getting his hands on good old Robb–  
_Johan_  
–and have a good talk with him before he puts him out of his misery; him and Prosecutor Blackquill both, if he's lucky. Once he's accomplished that and put a remedy to his worst mistake, it doesn't truly matter whether he lives or dies. Not that he'd _mind_ living, of course... but it isn't necessarily a requirement.

"Here's your hot dog!" Outis is snapped from his thoughts by Top Hat's voice. She's standing right before him with a smile and no hot dog at all, while Hair Loops is standing on the back, one hot dog in each hand.

He raises an eyebrow. "Does my hot dog happen to be invisible?" he asks, and that causes her grin to widen.

"Not for long!" she says, and the next moment she pulls something from one of her pockets: a large pair of panties. While amused, he has to admit he's slightly puzzled. He's about to ask if _she_ is a maniac after all, but then Top Hat moves her hand quickly over the panties, flicks her wrist... and then, in a puff of smoke, there's his hot dog. "Here you go!" she exclaims. The trick causes Outis to laugh.

"Hah! Good one there. You got me good. How did you do it?" he asks, taking his hot dog.

Top Hat clicks her tongue. "Magicians don't give away their tricks. Sorry!"

"Oh, it's fine. I understand. I truly do," Outis says, taking a bite of his hot dog. Not bad, not bad at all. "Thank you for the hot dog. Have a lovely day."

As the girls leave, chattering and eating their hot dogs, Outis takes another bite and lets his thoughts turn back to the Phantom. While this game of the cat and the mouse is quite amusing, he knows he should find out just _whose_ place he has taken among the people he's been dealing with at YggdraCorp... but it has to be in a way that will make his identity know to him alone, with no one else from YggdraCorp nor the Phantom himself knowing that he _knows_. He'll keep that for himself until he has to reveal it: after all, few things are as amusing as watching a clueless prey walking into a trap.

He'll have to make him reveal himself without realizing it. Good thing he knows exactly _how_ to do it, Outis thinks, and smiles again. He'll simply have to offer some food to all the people from YggdraCorp who are to come on board, and then watch; it will be enough.

Before it became clear how mistaken he had been in judging 'Johan' – how _flawed_ he truly was – there was something else he had been aware of: a tiny, seemingly insignificant flaw that had come out thanks to the medical tests required from recruitment. A detail even 'Johan' could do nothing about, one that couldn't be corrected, for there is no effort of will great enough to fix _that_ kind of flaw.

A very specific food allergy.

* * *

As much as he dislikes being laughed at, Robb can't help but think that Seymour's attempts at staying serious somehow sting more than laughter could. He scoffs and pulls the covers well over his head.

"Just laugh if it's so funny," he mutters, his voice muffled by the blanket. A small snicker reaches his ears, but aside from that Seymour doesn't let his amusement show. Much.

Then again, it's better to see him amused than upset. When Robb woke up that morning covered in itchy hives, they both got kinda scared. Seymour, mostly, because despite being alarmed as well Robb could tell he didn't feel sick; it took some time to convince Seymour that he wasn't just trying to hide some sickness not to make him worry. Not that being covered in hives and red blotches and itching all over is fun, but he doesn't seem to have fever or anything.

"Want some more caviar?" Seymour asks. Robb can almost _feel_ the smirk that's surely on his face. He scoffs.

"Shut up," he mutters sulkily. At this point it seems pretty obvious it was the caviar he stole and brought there the previous say to make him break out in hives. And to think he was so proud of getting his hands on it! Neither of them had ever eaten it before, and he was really curious to try it out. They both liked it, but now it looks like eating it wasn't such a bright idea after all.

"Why didn't _you_ get any hives?" he mutters, the covers still pulled over his head. He twists a little to reach back and scratch himself between the shoulders.

"Because I'm not allergic to caviar, apparently."

"This is not _fair_."

"Hey, I'm allergic to _chocolate_. You don't get to tell _me_ what's fair and what isn't."

Robb thinks about it for a moment. "... Fair enough," he finally says. "But you're still a dick."

"I'm not even laughing!"

"You want to!"

"Well, you do look funny..."

"Then don't loo-"

"Peep!"

"Make that duck shut up!"

"Peep! Peep!"

As Seymour gives in and just laughs, Robb grumbles again and gives up on trying to scratch his itchy spots: there's just too many of them. He's just going to curl into a tight ball under the covers and sulk. Sulk _a lot._ That will make Seymour feel bad, and then he'll have to say he's sorry, but he won't forgive him until he's spent at least a hour scratching his back with a brush or something. Yes, he'll do just that. It's a good plan.

Except that the next moment Seymour makes his next move, and it's not one Robb can counter: he lifts a corner of the blankets Robb is huddled under and slips something right next to his face – a brown paper bag filled with his favorite liquorice candy. Damn him, Robb thinks, he just knows him too well. He doesn't even try to resist: he knows he won't be able to anyway.

"I hate you," Robb proclaims before taking the paper bag and sitting up, the blankets falling off his head. Seymour is crouching right before the mattress, the duckling sitting precariously on top of his head. He half-expects Seymour to laugh again – because he does look weird, with the hives and red botches on his skin – but he just chuckles before he leans forward to give him a quick peck on the nose. The duckling almost falls off his head and, as it peeps in protest, Robb blinks.

"Aren't you gonna catch the hives or something?"

"Nope. Allergies are not contagious."

Robb grins. "Oh. How about kissing it better, then?" he says, popping a piece of candy in his mouth before he leans forward a bit. He did just that for him when he hurt his nose, after all.

And Seymour seems to be very much okay with returning the favor.

* * *

"A cruise ship? Is that what your mystery man said?"

Blackquill nods. "Yes. A ship called Thessaly, due to leave our coasts next Friday. According to the caller, the Phantom will be on board. And, since he implied in a previous phone call that he's somehow involved with YggdraCorp, I assume this may very well be a lead for you as well."

That much is true, Lang has to admit... still, there are a few things about this whole issue that makes the hair on his neck stand on end. The first thing is, obviously enough, the fact the lead comes from an anonymous call. The fact they have to act entirely based on information coming from hell knows who is more than a little unnerving... but, as Blackquill pointed out already, a dubious lead is better than no lead. Shady and risky as this may be, it's better than nothing.

It wouldn't be the first time he's had to follow some anonymous tip, anyway.

Another thing that unnerves him is the knowledge that both the Phantom and Shih-na – whatever her true name _is_ – seem to be involved. While he never had to deal with the Phantom, at least as far as he knows, he knows all too well how tricky and dangerous he can be; as tricky and dangerous as Shih-na herself. Two masters of disguise with no conscience and no remorse, both of them broken out of prison with inside help.

It's hard for him to believe that the fact they both seem involved with the same company's shady business is a coincidence. It seems that Shih-na has sunk to a new low, after all: from smuggling and murder to cooperating with a company that carries on unethical experiments on human beings.

_She'll pay for this. For this, and for everything else_.

"It seems that we'll need to see what country this ships hails from," Lang says slowly. It seems fate that he has to run into this particular problem time and time again.

Blackquill guesses the problem right away. "Extraterritoriality," he says.

"Precisely. I know more of it than I'd like thanks to a certain old bastard. If we want to get on board to investigate, we're going to need permission from the captain," Lang says. "But how do we know the captain is not involved with... whatever will be going on on that ship? He may very well be on YggdraCorp's payroll We'll need to mingle with the passengers without anyone knowing," he adds.

That obviously means he'll only be able to bring a handful of men with him; a hundred men would be too noticeable. And he knows Blackquill will be among them, too – because he can tell no force on Earth will be enough to keep the prosecutor off the ship, just as no force on Earth will keep him away now that he knows Shih-na may be on it as well. Not that Lang has any intention to get in Blackquill's way.

_Lang Zi says: never stand between the wolf and its prey_.

Blackquill gives him a knowing smirk, even though his gaze is still dark. "I believe we may have a chance to bypass the captain," he says. "I took the liberty of gathering some information on the ship myself before I called for you. It seems to be a Cohdopian cruise ship. And, unless I'm mistaken, the Chief Prosecutor knows someone who could help. An ambassador who could vouch for us to be allowed on the ship without even the captain knowing."

Lang stares at him for a few moments, then he feels a grin spreading on his own face. Why, he thinks, isn't this just perfect. "Ambassador Palaeno," he says, and throws back his head to laugh. "Hah! It looks like he'll get to show us his gratitude in a productive way, finally," he says. "Speaking of which, would you like-?"

"Thank you, but no," Blackquill cuts him off with a half-smile; strained, but still a smile. "Prosecutor Edgeworth has been handing over those coupons to everyone here for years. I have enough of them to cover my apartment's walls."

Lang sighs. "Ah well. It was worth a try," he says. A hundred men working for him, and he never seems to get rid of all those coupons quickly enough. "Mr. Pros- the Chief Prosecutor and I will have a talk with Ambassador Palaeno. I'm certain I'll be able to get you, myself and some of my best men on that ship. Needless to say, we'll need to use fake names. We don't want to be seen on the passengers list."

"Of course."

"It goes without saying," Lang adds, his tone and expression now deadly serious, "that this may become very dangerous. My men and I are trained to handle critical situations in a way you never were; that is a fact. I'll welcome any help you may give us, Prosecutor Blackquill – but I'll need you to know when it's best for you to step aside and let us handle everything. A pack works as one; one stray in the way may ruin the hunt."

For a moment Blackquill says nothing: he simply stares at him. Then he gives a lopsided smirk and reaches to stroke the head of the hawks that's been resting on his shoulder all along.

"Don't be concerned, Agent Lang. I won't hinder your work," he says.

It doesn't escape Lang how he doesn't downright promise to step back if the situation gets critical, nor it surprises him.

Blackquill isn't one to make promises he's not certain he can keep.


	11. Pitfall

_A/N: Sorry I took so long for this update. I had some other stuff to get done and I had to take a break from this. I should be able to get back to updating every two weeks from now on though._

* * *

As a prosecutor _and_ former death-row inmate, Blackquill can say he's seen his fair share of suspicious people. And few of them have looked quite as dodgy as the man he's staring at right now.

"Of course, I _really_ hope the ship's captain and crew know nothing of this _awful_ business," he says, wriggling his hands. "That a such thing could happen on a Cohdopian ship is _terrible_. You have my full cooperation, of course."

The Chief Prosecutor nods, apparently not at all put off by the man's slippery demeanor and by the amount of coupons that's been piling up on his desk through the meeting. There were moments Blackquill had to wonder if those coupons were meant to be an attempt at bribery, but if that was the case he assumes either the Chief Prosecutor or Agent Lang would have said something; they both seem to think it perfectly normal, though. Having already met Palaeno, Blackquill has to assume they know best.

"We hope that's the case, of course," Chief Prosecutor Edgeworth is saying. "We'd like nothing best than securing these people to justice without having to tarnish your country's name. However, we can't be certain the ship's captain and crew are not involved, either. The stakes being what they are, I'm certain you understand we cannot take risks."

"We wouldn't be asking if secrecy wasn't essential, Ambassador," Lang says. "Without authorization to _be_ there to investigate, we'd have no more authority than on Cohdopian soil. We need permission to get a few of my men, myself and the hawk lawyer here on board without going through the captain," he adds. While Blackquill can't say he cares much for Lang's nickname for him – apparently, _Mr Prosecutor_ is reserved to Chief Prosecutor Edgeworth alone – he wastes no time in arguing it.

Ambassador Palaeno immediately nods. "Oh, of course, I understand. I'm certain I can arrange for that. Of course, all I can do is pulling the strings – doing it all on my own would go well beyond my power. A few people outside this room would have to know, you understand."

"Unless your government is somehow involved with YggdraCorp as well, that shouldn't be a problem at all," Blackquill speaks up for the first time in several minutes.

His words cause Palaeno to shake his head once again. "No, not at all! That's simply impossible, I'm certain."

Lang nods. "I can confirm we found absolutely nothing linking YggdraCorp with Cohdopia at any level."

That's good to know, Blackquill thinks. He glances at Lang. "How many men do you plan on bringing in?"

"Ten of my best, plus myself and you. Don't you prosecutors usually work with a detective?"

"Hmph. Fool- Detective Gumshoe would be worse than useless in an emergency. I'll be on my own."

"Twelve people it is, then. We'll use fake names, obviously. Is that feasible, Ambassador?" Lang asks.

Ambassador Palaeno rubs his hands together. "Oh? Oh, yes! Your request is quite feasible. Lave it to me, agent Lang!"

"Speaking of requests," the Chief Prosecutor says. "I requested for a few copies of the passengers' list. Did you bring them with you?"

"Of course. I already gave them to you, actually."

"You already... oh. I see," Edgeworth mumbles, and starts flipping through the coupons on his desk. Blackquill is rather sure Lang's cough isn't a cough at all. Finally, Edgeworth pulls out a few pieces of paper from the pile. "Here they are. It does seem that several important people from YggdraCorp are on board," he muses, passing the list over to Lang and Blackquill.

Indeed, there are more than a few names Blackquill has seen already while looking into YggdraCorp. The CEO, obviously... and, among others, the chief of staff – Harrison Fire.

That causes Blackquill to frown. He still remembers clearly the talk he had with the man, how shocked he seemed to learn of Stan Doff's involvement with unethical experiments on human beings. If YggdraCorp was truly up to something on that ship, as the anonymous caller seemed to imply, then he must have known at least something. Could it be that he fooled him, that his shock was an act? It may be.

As LaRoche proved, fooling him is not impossible.

But, as LaRoche _will_ prove, fooling him also has dire consequences.

_You'll rue the day you were brought screaming into this world, Phantom_.

Blackquill sets his jaw and is about to put the list down, but he pauses when his eye catches something, something he didn't expect – the glimpse of familiar names near the end of the third page. He pauses, thinking that it can't be, that his eyes must be playing tricks on him. But there is no mistake: that much becomes clear the moment he looks again. In a sick jest of fate, there _are_ other names he recognizes on the list. Four names that don't belong to people from YggdraCorp. Four people who shouldn't be on the list.

Trucy Wright, Pearl Fey, Apollo Justice...

… and Athena Cykes_._

* * *

"Athena?" Apollo's voice causes Athena to recoil and look up form the Mood Matrix's screen. Having focused on it for so long, her sight is a bit blurry for a few moments as she looks at him across the room.

"Hey. Is it noodle time yet?" she asks.

Apollo tilts his head on one side. "... That was two hours ago, really. Mr Eldoon is off somewhere else this time. What's so urgent that it made you forget about lunch?"

Oh, Athena thinks, and glances at the time. It's almost three in the afternoon.

"Whoops. Sorry. I was just... going though some logs."

Apollo's gaze shifts to the Mood Matrix's screen. "The Phantom's sessions?" he asks quietly.

Athena gives a sheepish smile. "Only a quick look," she says. Apollo lifts an eyebrow. "... Okay, fine. A long look. I just... there are things I can't get out of my mind. I want to understand."

He scowls. "He lied to you. That's all," he says, his voice suddenly so much harsher than it usually is... but she knows it's not her his anger is for.

"The emotions were _there_. I know they were. He wasn't faking them, I'm sure of it," she says, suddenly desperate to make Apollo understand why she can't stop going over the logs of LaRoche's sessions with the Mood Matrix and her own notes about them: it's proof that it wasn't all one huge lie. "I think... well, it's obvious that he must have known his execution would be faked, but there were both fear and pain when he talked about it. I felt them. And I'm sure they were real."

Apollo is frowning, but he doesn't object to her claim; not aloud, at least. "But then, why would he feel either? If he knew he was not about to die, he shouldn't have felt like that."

Athena looks back at the logs showing on the screen. "He was, in a way. Robert LaRoche – the identity he fought so hard to regain – would have to be left behind. He would have to _die_. Shedding it can't have been as easy as just taking off a mask. That was his name, that was... it was _him_. He was leaving behind everything he had desperately wanted. It hurt and scared him almost as much as a _real_ death would."

There are a few moments of silence before Apollo nods. "But not quite as much in the end," he says. His voice is still a bit cold, as always when talking about LaRoche, but he's making a clear effort to tone it down.

She shakes her head. "No, not as much. He must have feared _real_ death even more. He feared it too much to hold onto his identity and face it."

Apollo scoffs. "A coward," he says. Athena looks away.

"... It can't have been an easy decision," she says. She knows that Apollo is right, that it was the escape of a coward, but she can't bring herself to feel the same fury he's rightfully feeling. His anger is justified, as is Simon's. She knows she has just as much right as they do to feel angered, and – in Simon's case – betrayed.

She _does_ feel betrayed in a way, but on the other hand she's had a window to LaRoche's mind and emotion that no one else had. She knows just how intensely he felt each emotion: after so many years hardly feeling anything, experiencing any emotion at all had to feel like a physical blow. That was proven by the pain he'd be in after each memory he could bring back to surface showed. It's not hard to imagine how something that would put fear into anyone's heart would turn into utter terror for him... and LaRoche, the man who emerged from the shell the Phantom was, was not a brave man. He lacked the strength Simon had, lacked the courage to stare at death in the face, to accept it. A coward, yes, but one she can't bring herself to hate.

"Athena?" She recoils when Apollo's voice reaches her, and she realizes that she fell silent, lost in thought.

She turns back to him and smiles. "I've been looking at this stuff for long enough. I should get some rest," she says, and turns off Widget, causing the Mood Matrix's screen to disappear. Her gaze stays fixed ahead for another moment as she wonders if Simon is letting himself see what's plain to her: that Robert LaRoche – the person they both learned to know – was not a lie. That he did not, _could not_ fool them all along.

… No, she's sure he's not; he feels too betrayed. It's like LaRoche's trial, all over again.

_I chose to be blind to his humanity. I willed myself not to see it because it was so much easier to think I was dealing with a monster_.

Athena tries to imagine what may happen should Simon actually manage to corner LaRoche once again, and she has to hold back a shudder. She can't imagine the outcome to be pleasant, and it's not for Simon she's worried. At this point it's plain to her that LaRoche wouldn't harm Simon; but the other way around... she can't feel so certain at all.

She would like to believe there are lines Simon would _never_ cross, she truly would... but she can't believe it as surely as she knows she should, and the thought frightens her more than she'd like to admit. What if-

Her cellphone suddenly rings, snapping her from her thoughts. She glances at the caller's ID and blinks.

_Well, speak of the devil. _

She takes the call. "Hi, Simon! How-" she starts, only to be cut off when Simon speaks, his voice tight.

"Cykes-dono," he says gravely. "We need to talk."

* * *

"Ta-daaa! Say hi to Yves Dropper. So, what do you think?"

The Phantom takes a long look at the woman standing before him. She's more heavy set than the Yatagarasu truly is – body padding, no doubt – and has hair of a dirty blonde barely reaching her shoulders. Her eyes are a rather unremarkable gray. All in all, the only familiar thing is her annoyingly wide smile – but that's something she'll wipe off her face when it will matter, he knows.

"It's good," he concedes. "Isn't 'Yves' generally considered a male name?"

The Yatagarasu shrugs. "Let's say my parents didn't know. I needed it to work in the pun."

"And is the pun strictly necessary?"

"Yes."

"Allow me to doubt it."

"Sheesh, relax. Only the first letter of the name goes on the name tag. I doubt anyone will ask. I'm just a bartender, remember? I'll mix their drinks, smile and be nice while they go ahead with their auction. Besides, Deep Throat is okay with it. Or at least they like it better than my first idea."

The Phantom doesn't waste any breath to remind her that their contact's code name is Proteus and certainly not Deep Throat. "And your first idea was...?"

"Yata Garasu."

"... I don't know what I was expecting."

That causes her to laugh, as most thing do. "Hahaha! Don't be so dour, Robb! I _will_ get a laugh out of you some-"

"_Don't_," the Phantom snarls, causing her to trail off. She blinks in surprise and he he pauses, his anger dying down just as quickly as it flared. He exhales before speaking again. "Don't call me that."

She stares at him for one more moment before nodding. "... I won't. Sorry," she says before changing subject entirely. "Have you had any other episode?"

The Phantom shakes his head. "No."

"No more hallucinations?"

"No."

"Memories?" she asks.

He could lie, he knows as much, and she wouldn't know better. He _could_. But there would be no point in it. "... One, last night. But it caused nothing but the usual headache," he says, and that is the truth."I believe the dream suppressant's after effects are fading."

She throws back her head and, predictably enough, laughs. "Hahaha! You could lighten up when you say that! It's good news. Just on time, too. With the auction in three days and all."

_The auction and Blackquill_, he thinks, suddenly feeling tired. He showed no surprise when Proteus told them both the Interpol and Simon Blackquill would be on board of the Thessaly to investigate YggdraCorp's dealings; truth to be told, he wasn't truly surprised. Part of him had expected Simon Blackquill to turn up on board since them moment Outis had made it plain he meant to involve him.

But it's a good thing that he _knows_: he'll be able to take the necessary steps to keep him safe, if needed. And, as Lang will be on board as well, he knows he can count on the Yatagarasu's cooperation.

"Has Proteus been able to figure out who this Outis may be?" the Phantom asks.

The Yatagarasu shakes her head. "No. They say that there is no clue at all. The name he goes by is entirely new, his face doesn't match any on the database, he's got no fingerprints... not even the DNA they got out of that cigarette butt you brought in was enough. The government is just as lost as we are."

"I see," the Phantom says. It bothers him that this man knows of him while he has no idea who he may possibly be, but it will cease to matter soon enough. Before this mission is over, whatever the outcome, he'll personally make sure this Outis won't be able to involve Blackquill into anything ever again. One bullet will be enough to ensure that.

He rarely, if ever, misses his target.

* * *

Umber is pleased to see, from the very first day at the shooting ground, that Johan's aim is excellent. Then again, it is to be expected: he's been a killer for hire for a few years, and he's clearly had plenty of practice. He's no sniper, but he's still the next best thing.

"Excellent," Umber smiles, reaching to put a hand on Johan's shoulder as he pauses to recharge. Most trainees' targets look like Swiss cheese, but the holes in Johan's own target are all in the same two areas – head and heart. "I believe there is little point in keeping up this training for you. We'll move on to other weapons," he adds. A normal gun can be relatively easy to handle, but spies don't often work with traditional guns: they're too large, too difficult to hide.

Johan nods, although he shows no amount of interest or pleasure for the praise.

"I've had practice," is all he says. Umber is about to speak again when there is a sudden yowling sound and something drops only a few steps from them. The trainees on the shooting ground all pause to see what the commotion is about. It's a cat, Umber sees, a big gray stray that wanders around the facility from time to time, and it seems to have caught something – something small and black that struggles futilely to get away from its paws. A blackbird.

"Looks like Lou got himself dinner," one of the trainees mutters, and there was a few laughs, but Umber doesn't take notice: he watches with some fascination as the bird tries to fly away only to be struck and pinned to the ground, over and over. A predator playing with its food; it's something Umber has seen often, with men and animals both. But it seems that the game is at its end, for the next moment the cat opens its mouth and-

_Bang_.

There are a few surprised cries when the shot rings out, but Umber barely flinches and just watches and the cat is suddenly thrown off its prey, leaving a trail of blood in the air before it lands some distance away with a graceless thud. While the blackbird immediately takes flight and darts out of their sight, the cat stays unmoving as blood begins pooling on the dirt around it.

A few moments of stunned silence follow. Umber is the first one to move, and he turns to face the shooter. Johan keeps looking at the cat's still body for a few more moments before meeting his gaze. His face is blank as always, and his voice is flat when he speaks. "May we resume the training now?"

"Why... what the fuck is _wrong_ with you!" one of the trainees yells, his features contorted with anger, and a few more open their mouths, most likely to ask a similar question.

Umber won't have it. "Quiet," he snaps, causing everyone to immediately fall silent and look at him. He stares at each and every of them, his hands folded behind his back. "Don't be ridiculous. You'll be required to kill people without flinching if the situation calls for it. Much like Johan has already done multiple times before even landing here," he adds with a half smile, barely glancing at his creature. He's standing there in silence, gun in hand, no expression at all on his face.

"But that was just-"

"If you're going to get emotional over a _cat_, you may as well shoot yourselves now for all the use you're going to be as spies," Umber cuts off the recruit. This one is showing some potential, but he speaks far too much. "The cat disrupted the training; Johan dealt with it accordingly. There is nothing more to it. Get back to your your shooting practice. Not you, Johan. Dispose of that thing first," he adds, jerking his chin towards the cat's dead body. He does dispose of the cat and the shooting practice proceeds as though nothing happened, a few angry glances aside. But Johan doesn't take notice of those, and neither does Umber.

By the time practice is over, the incident is almost erased from Umber's mind.

It will take him years to realize that what Johan – _Robb_ – did had nothing to do with the disruption of his training. It had been for the blackbird caught in the cat's claws, in a way... although even _that_ wasn't the whole truth.

In the end, even if he didn't consciously know it, it had all been about Seymour Blaxton.

* * *

Robb doesn't really like poetry.

Back in the orphanage, when they had to read and memorize a bunch of poems for school – because they wanted them to get some education even though most of them wouldn't get to do anything with it – he found them both boring and pretentious. Aside from a few times when he had declaimed some poem they had to learn in a perfect imitation of the director's squeaky voice – one that made even the teacher laugh until he teared up, even though the first time he tried to be stern – he found nothing interesting about poetry at all. He could learn poems easily enough because he has a good memory, but he'd forget them the moment he knew he'd no longer be asked to repeat them.

But he finds it's a lot better when someone else is doing the reading and he can just listen, letting the sound of the words wash over him. Especially when Seymour is doing the reading and Robb can rest his head on his lap. Even better when Seymour is holding the poetry book with just one hand and happens to be stroking his hair with the other.

Yeah, when put like this he doesn't mind poetry at all. It's raining hard, too, so it's not like they can do much else than just staying inside, and the drumming sound of rain makes for a nice background noise.

"Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys," Seymour is reading on, and Robb tilts his head to get him to stroke his hair just the way he wants it. "Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap; And seeing that it was a soft October night-"

"Birdbrain?"

Seymour's voice trails off, and his hand pauses. "What?" he asks, looking down at him.

Robb grins. "A little to the left. Yeah, there. Thanks. Proceed," he says, closing his eyes when Seymour sighs and strokes the hair barely above the nape of his neck.

"I get the feeling you're in more for the head rub rather than the poetry."

"Guilty as charged."

"Then you won't mind if I keep reading in silence."

"Aww, but I like it when you're reading!"

"I bet you don't understand most of the poem."

"Oh, blah blah. Bet you don't, either."

Seymour doesn't try to argue that point. "Fine. But stop interrupting," he says.

"I'll try," Robb says, causing Seymour to sigh with the air of a long-suffering parent before he resumes reading, still stroking Robb's hair. "And indeed there will be time / For the yellow smoke that slides along the street; Rubbing its back upon the window-panes..."

"Since when does _smoke_ have a back?"

Seymour's hand stops stroking his hair. "I thought we said no interruptions."

"Okay, okay," Robb mutters. "Sorry. Will shut up," he adds, tilting his head to get Seymour to stroke his hair again. Seymour shakes his head, rolling his eyes a bit, but in the end he resumes stroking and Robb closes his eyes with a content sigh.

"There will be time, there will be time / To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet; There will be time to murder and create, And time for all the works and days of hands / That lift and drop a question on your plate..."

* * *

"... And, so far, we know nothing more."

Blackquill's words are met with a long silence from everyone in the Agency. Athena is staring at him with wide eyes, as though she's still processing all she just heard, while Justice turns to look at the wall with a scowl. Wright stares at Blackquill for a few more moments, his mouth pulled in a tight line, before he exchanged a glance with Maya Fey and then looks over at his daughter.

Blackquill isn't surprised when Trucy Wright is the first one to speak up. "I'm _still_ going!" she says, folding her hands over her chest. Beside her, Pearl Fey is biting on her thumb. "So don't look at me like that!"

Wright frowns. "I know this is important to you, Trucy, and you practiced so hard, but-"

"See? So I'm going. I'm eighteen, dad. I can go if I want to!"

"But it could be dangerous," Wright adds, a little more forcefully. "Prosecutor Blackquill just said as much. Two dangerous spies may be on board, and whatever business this company has there-"

"But it has nothing to do with me at all!" Trucy protests, and stands. "Look, I can't just tell them I'm not doing the magic act anymore. Not three days before the ship leaves – I have a contract and all. Also, Prosecutor Blackquill said that this company, Igg... Egg..."

"YggdraCorp," Pearl Fey supplies helpfully.

"Yes, that. Thanks. You said they reserved the two upper decks, right?" she asks. Blackquill nods.

"That is correct. Whatever their business there is, it should be limited to those two decks."

"Then I'll be nowhere near them. Really! I'll be several decks down all the time!"

"I think Mr. Wright isn't as worried about YggdraCorp as he is about the Phantom," Justice speaks up for the first time. He's scowling, and not really looking at anyone else in the room. "He knows whose daughter you are, and Mr. Wright had a hand in exposing him to the court. He may decide to use you to get back to him."

That causes Athena to finally turn away from Blackquill and shake her head. "No. No, he wouldn't do that," she says, not a trace of doubt in her voice.

"You can't _know_ that," Justice points out, causing Athena to sigh.

"That's true. I can't know that. But I'm still sure he wouldn't do anything like that. Not for _revenge_."

Justice scoffs. "He's a _murderer_!"

"That he is," Blackquill says quietly. "He's a murderer, a liar, a coward. Still, I must agree with Athena's opinion. Vengeance holds no interest for him. He's had countless chances to visit harm upon each of us in the past two years, as we all believed him dead. He never took any. Wright-dono," he adds, turning to him. "While I do understand your worries, I don't believe the Phantom would be a threat to your daughter. As you cannot _legally_ forbid her to go, I hope knowing this will put your mind at ease."

"That kinda helps. Thanks," Maya Fey replies before looking back at Trucy and Pearl. "Pearl, you'll make sure she doesn't happen to _wander_ too close to the upper decks, right?"

"Aw, c'mon! Who do you take me for?"

"You can count on my, Mystic Maya! I'll keep her safe, Mr. Nick!" Pearl Fey adds, looking at Wright.

He chuckles. "You don't really look the part of the body guard, Pearly, but thanks," he says with a smile. He turns to Apollo and Athena, his expression sobering up. "What about you?" he asks, and he doesn't look surprised at all by the answers he gets.

"Of course I'm going! He... he owes me an explanation!"

"Clay's murderer is there – I can't just sit here and wait!"

Blackquill sighs. "Truth to be told, I had hoped the two of you would choose not to board the ship," he says. That much was true, but to be entirely honest he had known from the start it was a vain hope. He knew that Athena would want to be there... and so would Justice. They have such different reasons, and Blackquill can't blame either of them.

Athena gives a somewhat strained smile. "Hey, you know me. Bet you didn't _really_ think there was one single chance I'd stay off the ship."

"... Not really, no. But it goes without saying that neither of you is to get involved in the Interpol's investigation," Blackquill says. "Even my presence there is a stretch. I'm fairly certain that, wasn't the Phantom involved, Agent Lang may have decided not to let me on board either. Obviously," he adds, this time glancing at Justice, "if you happen to notice anything that may help, do let me know."

He knows full well that nothing will keep the two of them from actively looking for the Phantom if so they choose – especially Athena, since with her capability to listen to one's heart she may truly have a shot at recognizing him no matter what mask he's wearing. Still, he feels it's his duty to tell them not to.

Justice nods. "Of course," he says, his voice tight.

There is a brief silence, finally broken by Trucy Wright. "... I'm sorry, Polly. I wanted to let you have a nice vacation, but it looks like that backfired spectacularly," she mutters, eyes downcast.

"Hey, don't say that! There is no way you could have known," Justice says, and within moments everyone is joining him to reassure her that she did nothing wrong, nothing at all.

Everyone, except Athena – whose gaze stays on Blackquill. She stands and reaches to put a hand on his arm. "Simon, I promise I won't take stupid risks. Promise me you won't, either."

He smirks. "Of course not. I have no intention to-"

"If you catch him, promise me you won't harm him."

Her request catches him by surprise, and he finds himself staring at her for a few moments before replying. "I'm afraid I cannot promise as much," he says slowly.

Her grip on his arm tightens. "Simon, please. We had to go through so much to prove you're not a... a... _please_. I don't think he'd harm you."

Blackquill looks away, his gaze still dark. Does she truly think the Phantom would have enough decency not to cause him harm? Part of him scoffs at the thought, and yet he wishes he could believe it as well.

"He will not come quietly, I suspect. He may try to fight; even _rats_ fight when cornered. But..." he pauses and finally looks back to her. "You have my word I'll use no more force than necessary if it comes to securing him to justice by my own hand."

Athena doesn't seem entirely reassured, but she lets go of his arm and makes an effort to smile. "Thank you."

Blackquill can't bring himself to answer with a smirk of his own.

* * *

When the Phantom – Harrison Fire – walked inside the meeting room for what he knew would be the last meeting before they boarded the ship the next day, he didn't expect to find trays of caviar tarts in the middle of the meeting table. Nor did any of the others, if their surprised reaction is of any indication.

"Not that it isn't nice, but whose idea was this?" the CEO is asking with a half-laugh, although there is some strain to it. The Phantom can tell she's the kind of person who doesn't like it when anything is done without her approval in her company... even something as harmless as bringing in some tarts.

"I took the liberty," Outis speaks up, pulling something out from under his jacket – a bottle of champagne, the Phantom can see. "Well, I figured a little celebration was in order, since this is the last meeting before we set sail. Literally," Outis says with a shrug, holding up the bottle. "Who better than the CEO to open this?"

Dr. Dote seems still surprised, but no longer displeased. Eventually she chuckles and reaches to take the bottle. "I'm not good at this. You may want to stay out of the way," she adds. And indeed, when the cork pops out Harrison Fire ducks just on time under it, causing a few laughs.

"Since when are your reflexes _this_ quick, Harry?"

Fire laughs as well, straightening himself. "We had a fair warning," he says with a shrug. "Now, we're supposed to drink the champagne, aren't we?"

* * *

The next several minutes are nothing but pleasant; some small talk over champagne and caviar tarts. Outis may find it amusing that these people are on to sell a deadly toxin off to an auction, but at the moment he can't allow himself to be distracted. Even as he talks and laughs, he has to pay close attention to who's eating the caviar tarts... and even closer attention on whoever is _not_ doing so.

It's not difficult: soon, almost everyone has had at least one tart along with their glass of champagne. All except _one_, actually. The pleasant smile still on his face, Outis excuses himself from the chief of security and walks up to the odd one out.

"Aren't you having any tarts, Mr. Fire? Don't you like caviar?" he asks, causing whatever conversation had been going on between Fire and the company's chief systems designer to pause. "Perhaps I should have given you a wider choice."

That causes Mr. Drawers to laugh. "Harrison could live on caviar if you let him. Remember when we celebrated the opening of the new R&amp;D department two years ago?"

Fire makes a face. "I was hoping you'd forgotten all about that episode. It was rather embarrassing," he says.

"I'll refrain from asking for details," Outis says with a brief laugh. He reaches to take the almost empty tray from the table and holds it before Fire. "I do insist, though. They're really good."

Fire sighs. "You shouldn't be tempting me like this," he says, and reaches to take a tart before he nods at him politely and resumes his conversation with Mr. Drawers.

Outis puts the tray back on the table and moves a little away... but he still _watches_.

He watches Fire as he talks and talks and drinks some more champagne, and still doesn't take one bite from the tart in his hand. He watches as he approaches the table to put down the now empty glass... and drops the still untouched tart back on the tray with the same motion. It's a very practiced move, nothing short of a magician's trick, one untrained eyes wouldn't even notice. But Outis' are all too trained, and he _sees_. He sees all he needs to see, all he _wanted_ to see.

As he focuses his attention back on the CEO and dutifully nods at her, he has to struggle to keep a shark-like smile off his face. _Well, well. Here's our little mouse_, he thinks, feeling all the world like he's once again standing over a frightened, wounded boy in an old warehouse back in Borginia, a gun in his hand and no idea of what he was about to create.

_Hello, Robb. Johan._

_Got you_.

* * *

Blackquill doesn't see the picture on the floor until he almost steps on it.

He pauses on the doorway, hand still on the light switch, staring down at the photograph for a few moments before he reaches down to take it. Someone must have slipped it under his door, no doubt. He looks back to the hallway through the still open door – no point in it, though; the hallway is empty, and he's just come from there – before closing the door and looking more closely at the photo.

It shows a tall, lanky man with black hair barely sprayed with gray, slicked back with what's likely an exaggerated amount of hair gel. He's wearing an immaculate gray suit and laughing at something happening off camera. Behind him there is nothing but a white wall; nothing to show where the picture was taken.

Blackquill frowns, wondering what that may be about, but his frown turns into something else entirely when he turns the picture to take a look at the back of it. There is something written on it with a handwriting he's come to know well after seeing it on various confessions and testimonies – a handwriting so _impersonal_ it almost looks like the printing from a book, and therefore absolutely recognizable to him.

LaRoche. LaRoche was here, standing before his very door, and as the coward he is he left a _message _rather than facing him. Anger boiling hot and bitter in his chest, Blackquill needs a conscious effort to keep himself from crumpling the photograph in his hand and just read.

And as he does, anger turns into complete, utter confusion.

_I know you will be on the ship. You must look out for this man. He goes by the name of Ulysses Outis, and he has shown an uncanny interest in you. He is, I'm sure of it, the man who put you on my trail in the first place. He's a spy as well; YggdraCorp hired him to find me. While I don't know who he precisely is yet, I can tell he's dangerous. Show this to the Interpol. Don't confront him yourself if you can avoid it.  
I won't give excuses for my escape. I have none. None but this: I never thought you'd come to know the truth. I hoped you'd be content in your ignorance and move on with your life. I know that is no longer a possibility now that you know I still live.  
I won't spend this life waiting for you to find me or die in the attempt. Once this matter is over with, I'll turn myself over to you.  
Until then, be careful._


	12. The Cruise

_A/N: special thanks to Keyanna for proofreading this chapter. Thanks again!_

* * *

"Cykes? What in the world is _Cykes_ doing among the passengers?"

The Yatagarasu shrugs, taking note of the fact the Phantom sounds genuinely surprised. Not that it means much since he could fake any emotion he wants blindfolded and withan arm tied behind his back, but she likes to think she's harder to fool than most.

"Maybe she just felt like going for a nice cruise?" she suggests. "A funny coincidence, huh?"

The Phantom looks up from the passengers list to glare at her. "I don't believe in coincidences," he says, his voice tight.

"Hu-uh. Speaking of coincidences, I think I found Blackquill's fake name in the list. Turn the page," she adds. The Phantom does, and she's not at all surprised when he goes silent and still, eyes fixed on the name on the page.

_Seymour Blaxton_.

"Now that just can't be a coincidence, is it?" she asks, tilting her head to one side while carefully observing the Phantom's flat expression. No emotion at all shows, but she knows better. "He knows that name would mean something to no one else but you. Looks like he wants you to know he's on the ship, and where. The question is, why would he let you know as much? Why give away his presence?"

The Phantom stays silent for a few more moments before he finally puts down the list and speaks. "That's because he knows that I _know _he'll be on board."

That was pretty much the answer the Yatagarasu had expected. She expects the next one as well, but she decides to ask anyway. "And he knows because...?"

There is another moment of silence before the answer comes, predictable as expected. "Because I told him."

* * *

"... Ulysses Outis, precisely. A scan of his picture has already been sent out. I want you to search through all databases we have – by name _and_ picture – and find out _who in the blazes_ he is. Get working on it, pup!"

Blackquill and Chief Prosecutor Edgeworth exchange a glance as Lang ends the call. Edgeworth clears his throat. "You're certainly aware that the search by name is unlikely to yield results," he says. "It's a fake name if I ever heard one."

While he's always been far more interested in Japan's history and culture far more than he's been in ancient western mythology, Blackquill can tell he's right. _Outis_ was the name Odysseus gave when asked his name by a giant creature set on slaying him and his companions – a name that literally means _nobody_. And Ulysses, of course, is nothing but the latinization of Odysseus' name.

Whoever this man is, he didn't truly bother to come up with a believable name to go by.

_My name is Nobody. Nobody I am called by mother, father, and by all my comrades_.

Lang gives a sigh that sounds half like a growl. "Then we should hope the face recognition search gives us _something_ to work with," he says, and looks down at the picture again. He flips it to read the message behind it again. "So, hawk lawyer. You're _positive_ that this is from your Phantom, right?"

"As you're certain that the message you found in your pocket is from your _own_ phantom, yes. A curious thing, don't you think, how similar the messages are?" he asks, and sees Lang stiffen for a moment. But it can't have escaped him how both this message and the one this Shih-na seems to have slipped in his pocket have been written and delivered with the one purpose of _warning_ them.

_Be careful, idiot,_ the message to Lang read. _They'll kill you if they have to._

Not quite as detailed and apologetic as the Phantom's message, perhaps, but it did get the point across.

"This _might_ be a leap of logic," Chief Prosecutor Edgeworth speaks, adjusting his glasses with a thoughtful frown. "But it seems more and more believable that both Calisto – Shih-na, whichever – and the Phantom may be working together. Two spies, both masters of disguise, _both_ broken out of prison, clearly involved in the same murky business. It cannot be a coincidence."

"... Could be," Lang concedes, looking down at the picture. "This one is a spy too, apparently. The mystery man who called you to give you information, if what's written here can be believed. I guess we should take all of this with a good fistful of salt. Lang Zi says: the juiciest bite meat can hide the sharpest shard of bone."

"Hmph. I'll be sure to pass this information down to Taka," Blackquill mutters before turning back to what, he feels, is the truly important point in the letter. "Still, if what LaR- the Phantom wrote is true, then we have entirely misunderstood what his role in this is. What _their_ role in this is, assuming that he and your own demon truly are working together."

There is a low hum as Lang looks back down at the words written on the back of the photograph. "I see your point," he says slowly. "_He's a spy as well; YggdraCorp hired him to find me. _We have been assuming he and Shih-na were working for YggdraCorp. This presents the possibility they may be working _against_ it," he scoffs and puts the picture back down. "This would surely make so much more sense if we had the slightest idea of what YggdraCorp is _exactly_ up to."

"We'll know soon," Blackquill says. "That's why we'll be on board as well, after all – to find out. Be it from the investigation or the Phantom himself, we _will_ have answers."

Lang snorts. "Yeah, he says he'll turn himself over to the police. Are we supposed to take that seriously?"

Blakquill bites harder on the feather in his mouth, brow furrowing in thought. The second part of the message is precisely what has kept him awake the previous night, wondering if that was the truth – that not everything had been an act, and that LaRoche would willingly turn himself over to him rather than escaping time and time again.

_I hoped you'd be content in your ignorance and move on with your life._

_I won't spend this life waiting for you to find me or die in the attempt._

Is it the truth? What would be the point in lying, in writing anything like that if he didn't mean it? If it was an attempt at softening him, at manipulating him, it's a clumsy attempt at best... and that's not how the Phantom works. It's not how Robert LaRoche works, either.

"To the police? I have my doubts," Blackquill finally speaks quietly. "To _me_, though... perhaps. Even if he won't, it will make no matter. I'll have him soon either way," he adds, looking straight at Agent Lang. "The only thing he may change by turning himself over willingly is whether or not I'll bother to listen to whatever excuse he may bleat."

But part of him already knows that no excuses will be uttered. The Phantom has said as much, hasn't he?

_I won't give excuses for my escape. I have none._

Then again, he also claimed he'd stand on the gallows and die a man; a promise he failed to keep, for he ran away as he's been doing his whole life. If he truly meant that promise at any point, he lacked the courage to go through with it. Perhaps he meant what he wrote as well, but when the moment comes he may still try to get away, try to come up with pathetic excuses.

Blackquill is more than ready to take him down if he tried to escape once again, but he finds himself hoping that it won't be necessary, that the Phantom will truly turn himself over without trying to hide behind sad excuses. He still wishes to see a _man_ standing before him, ready to pay for his crimes in full.

He doesn't know yet that he'll get so much more than he bargained for.

* * *

As a spy who's lived for the longest time with no personality of his own, the Phantom considers himself to be a highly adaptable individual. The Yatagarasu's laugh, however, is something he doesn't think he'll ever truly get used to.

"This is- hahahahah! This is _hilarious_! We're the _worst_ spies ever – you know that, right?"

The Phantom isn't inclined to agree – they're both highly skilled and their successes outweigh their failures by far; they're among the very best – but he isn't inclined to argue, either. He can see her point, to be fair: with Blackquill and Lang both involved, both of them have the tendency to make decisions they would never even consider otherwise.

The fact they _both_ wrote to the ones chasing them to warn them of danger makes that rather obvious.

"Since you took time to write Lang a note, I thought it fitting to leave one of my own," he says flatly. "Outis is obviously interested in him. Blackquill must look out for him."

She gives another chuckle, but doesn't burst outlaughing again. "Hah. Fair enough, I guess. And you even got him a pretty picture to go with the warning."

"There was hardly any point in warning him about a man he wouldn't recognize upon sight," the Phantom says. There was more to the message then that, so much more, but that's not something he can tell her. He doesn't know what her reaction may be if she _knew_ of his intention to turn himself over to Blackquill, but he has the distinct feeling she wouldn't quietly step aside and let him. He can't have her against him now.

The government _certainly_ wouldn't approve: he may cause them trouble if he tells who he's been working for and who aided his escape. He has no intention to – no point in doing so – but he's certain that they'd want to avoid all risks. There is no doubt in his mind that the moment he turns himself over he'll be as good as dead. If they could break him out of prison, they can kill him within its walls just as easily before he has a chance to _speak_.

But that's alright. It doesn't matter. There is only one person he needs to speak to, if only for one minute.

Part of him dreads the thought; he knows there is no defending what he did. There is nothing he can say to justify himself that isn't the pathetic excuse of a coward.

_The catwalk broke. I couldn't know it would happen. It was an accident._

_You ran away. You forgot me. I trusted you._

_You were never supposed to know. You were supposed to be safe._

_I was wrong to believe you a man. You ran away like the phantom __you__are_.

The Phantom clenches his teeth for a moment, trying to chase away the memory of that hallucination from his mind. Blackquill will hate him, he _must_ hate him, but at least he can hope he'll be able to prove him wrong and make up for his escape by turning himself over. Afterward, he can as well die in the knowledge Simon Blackquill will be _safe_. He will not, cannot run away. Not again.

Never again.

* * *

While he generally considers himself a people person – or at least the closest to a people person you _can_ be when your identity has to remain unknown and you may have to kill the people around you if need be – Outis appreciates the fact the ship is empty.

Of course it's not _really_ empty: a good number of people from the crew are on board, making sure everything is ready to leave in the morning. Some more people, most likely from the Interpol, have already been here to search the whole ship and left only hours ago. They were meant to be disguised as members of the crew, of course, but Outis wouldn't have lasted as long as he did in his line of work if he couldn't recognize an officer with one glance.

They found nothing, obviously, because there was nothing for them to find just _yet_. Of course, now that they're gone and he's had a chance to sneak on board undetected, that will change. Shame that no one will realize it until it will be too late to do anything about it.

He hopes he'll be able to settle his scores without having to resort to anything so unpleasant... but any good spy needs a backup plan. And a hostage situation, with thousands of lives depending on the flipof a switch, always makes for a good backup plan. Or for mass _distraction_, depending on which would serve him best.

Good for him that YggdraCorp graciously provided him with the means to set this up, albeit unknowingly.

Outis hums to himself and puts down the bag he's carrying – carefully, because he has no intention of opening any of _those_ by accident, not yet – to pull something out of his pocket: the outline of the ship's air duct system. It was really gracious of YggdraCorp to tell him everything he needed to know about Erysichthon.

_It can be __drunk__, injected, or breathed in as a gas_. _Either way, the toxin finds its way in the bloodstream_.

Stealing their prototypes and using them like this makes him feel mildly guilty, true enough; he's never been anything but a professional, with a set of rules when it comes to work he's hired to do. But this... this is a special case, perhaps his very _last_, and he'll take no chances.

There is simply no way he'll let _him_ escape his grasp again.

Never again.

* * *

"Favorite band?"

"The Gavinners. I was _totally_ heartbroken when they broke up."

"Favorite song?"

"Guilty Love. It's not half bad, really. Want me to sing it?"

"No. Favorite dish?"

"Human meat."

"You're not amusing."

"And you're a _bore_," the Yatagarasu says, rolling her eyes and letting herself fall back on Harrison Fire's bed. It sure is comfier than Mary Goround's. How come the Phantom always gets all the nice things? "Look, this Yves Dropper is someone I'm making up. She's doesn't _exist_, she's new to the job, no one _knows_ her. I can make everything I want up and no one will know better."

The Phantom doesn't take his eyes off whatever he's working on. Maybe it's another special watch, judging from the tools he's using. "That's no reason not to make her as real as possible. You must be consistent. Two different answers to the same innocuous question may be the end of you..."

"Pffft- hahahahaha!" she laughs, throwing her head back. "Aww, you _care_!"

"... _And_, by extension, the end of the mission," the Phantom says a bit more forcefully. "Neither of us wishes for that to happen, do we? There will be a deadly toxin on board. Along with people we'd rather not see dead."

The Yatagarasu sighs. "Sheesh. You never light up, do you? I'm certain we'll be fine," she says. She's aware of that, of course; does he really think she's such an amateur, to get caught so easily? It's not happening, no toxin will be released and Lang won't wind up pushing daisies before his time. That she has no doubt about.

"Nothing's certain except death. And, in our case, not even that. Here," the Phantom says flatly, throwing something – whatever he's been working on – in her direction. She sits up and catches it in mid-air. It's a round pendant attached to a small golden chain.

"... Huh. Is it too late to let you know there are no romantic feelings from my part?"

"I'll try to survive the heartbreak," the Phantom says flatly. "I figured someone might notice if this Yves Dropper just _happened_ to have Mary Goround's same watch. It's a stretch, but there is no point in taking risks. That pendant has all the same functions the watch had. Except for the grappling hook, although seeing you hanging by the neck would be more entertaining than listening to your prattling is. The one in your ring should have to suffice should you be in the dire need of a grappling hook."

She laughs, slipping the pendant around her neck. "I'll be fine. The hook is your favorite toy, not mine. I'll stick with the tranquilizers, or the gun-cellphone thing. Did you know that my earrings are flash bombs? You throw them on the floor and whoever is looking gets blinded for a good minute."

"I'm aware of that. I was provided with some as well."

"... Earrings?" the Yatagarasu asks, a smirk curling her lips as she tries to picture the Phantom with earrings.

He scoffs softly as he puts his tools away, not looking at her. "Flash bombs. They're in my cufflinks."

"Oh, too bad. I hoped to see you with earrings," she says with a grin, reaching to poke at the earrings she's already wearing. "You know, I could have _really_ used something like this back in the day. Too bad Alba didn't invest much in gadgets. Then again, he didn't even know how to turn on a computer. Old people, huh? He should have retired when he still could and spent his last days tending to flowers or something, but nope. At least he left with a bang. Literally. Firing squad," she adds, pretending to be aiming a gun at the ceiling. "_Bang_. Wonder what went through his mind when they opened fire."

"A bullet, most likely."

This time she laughs so hard that she can hardly breathe. "HAHAHAHA! That's- pwwwfft- hahaha! So there _is_ some sense of humor there!"

"I was merely stating a fact," he drones.

"Hahaha! Don't be shy – you're funny! I'd miss you if you died – so don't get yourself killed on that ship, you hear?"

She expects another dry answer, and thus she's slightly surprised when, for a few moments, the Phantom says nothing. She frowns a little, but he speaks again before she can.

"... I have no plans on dying on that ship," he says, and finally stands from the desk. "You'll be expected to show at dawn along with the rest of the crew. You should sleep."

"Does that mean I get the bed?"

"Since you won't go back to Mary Goround's apartment, yes. The couch will do just as well. Unlike a certain someone, I'm not inclined to waste time arguing over a bed."

"Aw, and you were such fun until now," she complains, but her grin dies down the moment the Phantom turns to leave the room. There's something there, something he's not telling her, but she doubts the Phantom would say anything even if pressured. When she speaks again it's on a whim. "Hey, Robert."

Hearing his name causes him to stop in his tracks, but there is no outburst. Somehow, being called Robert bothers him far less than being called 'Robb'. She supposes that out of the two, the nickname is what he was most accustomed to be called by... and the one that holds most meaning. She's rather sure that Blackquill never called him anything other than 'LaRoche' even after his name was known.

"That's not my name anymore," the Phantom says quietly, not turning to look back at her.

She shrugs. "Well, no point in forgetting it, so I may as well use it from time to time. I won't make that a habit, I promise," she says, and pauses before speaking again. "Well, fair's fair. Wanna know what my name was? The first one I remember being given, anyway?"

The Phantom stays silent for a moment before turning to look back at her over his shoulder. He's still wearing Harrison Fire's mask – as he apparently does all the time – but that blank expression is unmistakable. She wonders, not for the first time, what it may hide. "... If you're inclined to share it," he finally says.

"Chrysalis," she says, and shrugs. "Since it was some _cocoons_ to start it all, Alba must have thought it fitting. In a way, it _is_ funny. A war, thousands dead and thousands orphaned because of cocoons."

They already talked about the absurdity of it all, she recalls, and they even shared a laugh over it – one of the very few she ever got out of him. Still, the Phantom doesn't laugh this time. He doesn't even smile; not that she expects him to be anything but serious. For people like them, willingly sharing your name – or the closest to a name of your own you have – is kind of a big deal. "Do you wish me to use it?" is all he asks.

"Nah. I like being the Yatagarasu well enough. But from time to time, why not. If I call you Robert first. How about that?"

He turns away. "I'll consider it," is all he says before turning and leaving the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

* * *

Blackquill isn't surprised to find Agent Lang barking orders when he enters the cabin the Interpol is using as their temporary base on the ship. It's large enough, but with all the equipment crammed in there and several men moving around it feels like a rather cramped space.

"All ladybugs are fully functional, shifu," a man is saying, pointing at what looks like a bunch of dots on a screen before Lang's eyes. "We'll hear every word that's breathed in there."

Lang nods. "Very well. I want you to take samples of everyone's voices in there and have a team working on vocal recognition right away. Female voices first," he says.

"Are you hoping to find your own phantom in there?" Blackquill asks. The notion doesn't surprise him, nor does Lang's answer.

"As you do," he says, tearing his gaze away from the screen before turning to look at him. "Speaking of which, hawk lawyer – are you trying to lure him to you?"

A smirk curls Blackquill's lips. "Am I now?"

"It looks to me like you are. I took the liberty of taking a closer look at the name you used to register on board. Seymour Blaxton. You want him to know precisely where to find you, don't you?"

He does, true enough. The name won't mean much to anyone but the Phantom; no one but him would know. "... Perhaps. Since he already knows I'll be on board, I see little point in hiding. I'll make things easier for him should he truly mean to turn himself over. I'm certain it won't interfere with your investigation."

Lang's eyes narrow. "What game are you playing at? Is this your psychological manipulation at work?"

Blackquill's smirk doesn't waver. "You have your means to find your demon, Lang-dono. Allow me to use my own to get mine out of whatever hole he's hiding."

* * *

"Mr. Fire! Will you join us for a drink?"

Outis' voice causes something in the Phantom's stomach to clench, but as he turns a perfectly polite smile is gracing Harrison Fire's face. "Why, gladly," he says. "But I need to empty my suitcase and refresh a bit."

The man shrugs. "Oh, that's fine! I was thinking of watching as the ship leaves the harbor, inan hour's time. There's a nice bar right on the upper deck. Will we see you there?"

Harrison smiles. "Do count me in," he says.

_I'm going to kill you_, the Phantom thinks. _My last murder, if everything goes as it should. _

_There will be time to murder and create_, Seymour's voice echoes somewhere in the back of his mind.

_One more murder. The last_.

Unaware of his thoughts, Outis smiles and gives him a pat on the shoulder. "Wonderful! See you there," is all he says before turning to leave.

The Phantom forces himself not to stare at him as he leaves – _who is he? He'll have to tell me before he dies, I'll make him tell me_ – and simply walks inside Harrison Fire's cabin, closing the door behind himself.

It's a rather spacious cabin, but that matters not. The first thing he does is reaching for his watch, searching for any ladybugs that may be in it. There are none, apparently, but there _is_ a message from the Yatagarasu; it was sent only minutes earlier. With the press of a button, he makes it appear on the display.

_I have seen Cykes and Justice near the staff's quarters. They're here along with some kid who's going to star in a magic act. They're going to meet Blackquill – Justice didn't bother to speak quietly. I put a tracking chip on her. One of yours. You can track her down now. Also, I'm learning how to __make__the best Mojito. If anyone from YggdraCorp asks for one tomorrow, they're going to be amazed_.

Another press of a button, and there she is – not too far away from him, actually: only a few decks down. Too close for comfort, but at least she's not close enough to make him worry for her safety just yet. It's a good thing he can track her every movement: if she comes too close to danger, he'll know.

He won't, _can't_ let any harm come to her. She's too important to Blackquill, and she believed in him – in the shell known as the Phantom – perhaps even more than Blackquill himself ever did. She certainly believed in Robert LaRoche... and he betrayed that trust.

_Thank you. For... for giving me a name, for making me someone. Thank you for not giving up on me_.

_Is it too late to prove you were not wrong, Cykes? What will you think when you see me again?_

The Phantom reaches to take off Harrison Fire's face, revealing the underneath. He walks to the bathroom to look in the mirror. There it is, the face they'll see, the one he was given when he left Robert LaRoche behind; only the eyes are the same. He supposes it may be described as good looking, more than his real one ever was... but it's another mask, nothing more, one made of flesh rather than latex. Not his face. Never _his_ face.

Still, there is something on it – traces of the bullet scar on his forehead – that could not be erased. They may recognize that. They may recognize _him_, despite the different face. And his heart, the voice of his heart, will Cykes still be able to hear it?

"There will be time, there will be time / To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet..."

It's somewhat eerie, listening to those words coming from his own mouth rather than Seymour's, but at the same time it feels oddly comforting. It's _his_ voice, _his_ memories. He still has that much.

What face he's wearing matters little. After all, he won't have to wear that face for much longer. He can tolerate it for the limited time he's still given to live.

* * *

"Sacré bleu! I had never seen a ship _this_ big before!"

"... Is that your way of saying we're lost?"

"Of course not!" Athena says, trying to sound as confident as possible. "I'm sure Simon is, uh... somewhere around here. Just at the end of some hallway."

"But there are only stairs this way," Apollo points out.

"... Oh."

Apollo sighs, stopping at the base of the stairs. "So we're lost."

"Maybe a bit," Athena admits, and sighs as she steps aside tonot be in the way of other passengers. They're in some kind of hall, with elevators and stairs on both sides; they're either on the wrong deck or on the wrong end of the ship. "Maybe we should have let Trucy come along. Bet she'd pull a map right out of her magic panties or something," she adds. Truth to be told, Trucy had wanted to come with them as soon as they had boarded; she had only given up because Apollo had been adamant and Pearl had reminded her they should practice her act so that they'd be sure it would go smoothly that evening.

"Trucy's not going anywhere she's not supposed to go. Not with that monster on board," Apollo says, his voice suddenly harsh, and Athena bites her lower lip, suddenly feeling guilty for suggesting that even as a joke. LaRoche murdered his best friend, so of course Apollo wants to keep Trucy from getting anywhere near him. Even if LaRoche has no reason to harm her, it's no wonder he wants to keep the person he thinks of as a little sister out of this.

"... Right. Sorry, I didn't-"

"You can be assured that no harm will come to Wright-dono's daughter," a well-known voice speaks up from behind them, causing Apollo to recoil. Looks like it was Simon to find them in the end.

"Oh. Hey, Simon," Athena greets him, trying to smile up at him despite the sadness she feels every time she looks at his face. The dark shadows under his eyes had almost entirely disappeared, but now they're starting to come back – a telltale sign that he hasn't been getting much sleep lately. "So, uh... any news?"

Simon's gaze darkens a bit. "Some, but not much. I'm afraid that, well-meaning as he may be, Agent Lang considers me little more than a guest. I suppose it makes sense from where he stands. This case belongs to the Interpol, and I wouldn't even have been allowed on board under normal circumstances. I suspect Lang may have pulled some strings," he says with an odd smile. "He has a phantom of his own to catch."

"But you know _something_, right?" Apollo presses on, frowning. "Is it something about the Phantom?"

Simon shakes his head. "No," he says. "All we know is about YggdraCorp. Still, we know that whatever business the Phantom has on this ship is related to that company's. It's a starting point."

"So what do you know so far?"

"They have reserved most of the two top decks for themselves and some other passengers. None of their names are known to the Interpol, but they may well be fake names. Most interesting of all, the Interpol found out they reserved the casino room in the upper deck tomorrow – starting at two in the afternoon," Simon says, and turns to Athena. "It didn't take much to realize that, around that time, the ship will be in international waters. At that point, it would be impossible for any kind of police to intervene without the captain's permission to even _be_ on board."

"But... you bypassed that, didn't you?" Athena asks, and Simon nods.

"That we did. We have all the permissions we need to carry on searches and arrests both if given a good reason to, unbeknownst to the ship's captain. Or, at least, the Interpol does. Still, since there is no reason for us to believe YggdraCorp knows it, we believe the fact they reserved that room to use while in international waters may be very meaningful. It seems the only _proper_ meeting place they reserved. If something's going to happen, it will happen there. And if the Phantom is involved, he'll be _there,_" Simon adds, his voice colder... but suddenly Athena can feel discord in his heart, something that feels like pain and worry. It's utterly different from the anger his words convey. Still, she says nothing of it – not yet.

"But how are you going to get in there?" Apollo asks. "If they're on to something in there I don't think they'll keep the door open, and security will probably be tight."

"And the Interpol needs a good reason to act on," Athena mutters, toying with her earring in thought. "You can't burst in without knowing what's going on and with nothing but a hunch."

Simon smirks. "Very observant. The Interpol is working on it as we speak, I believe. Some of its undercover agents have already fitted that room with ladybugs. Everything that will be said in there, we'll hear. The moment anything compromising leaves their lips, they'll be cut them down without mercy."

"And you think the Phantom is working with them?"

Apollo's question causes Simon to pause. "That's what we assumed until very recently. However, I am now in possession of evidence that challenges that assumption. It may as well be that he's working _against_ them," he says slowly, and reaches into his coat's pocket. He pulls out something – a photograph. He hands it to Athena, and Apollo scoots closer to see it as well. "I found this in my apartment; it was obviously slipped under the door. Take a good look at the man in this picture – no, Justice-dono. I don't believe that is the Phantom's disguise," he adds, and Apollo, who had just opened his mouth to speak, promptly shuts it. "There is a message written behind it."

Athena flips the photo, and there's the message – one written in a handwriting she recognizes immediately. She has only ever seen one person whose writing is so impersonal, as though out of a printer. Her eyes scan the message, and by the time she reaches the last few lines there is a dull ache in her chest. LaRoche wrote this to warn Simon about danger, and he's ready to turn himself over to give him closure, to protect him. She was right, then – she was right about LaRoche, she was right to believe it hadn't been all a lie.

_I won't give excuses for my escape. I have none. None but this: I never thought you'd come to know the truth. I hoped you'd be content in your ignorance and move on with your life. I know that is no longer a possibility now that you know I still live.  
I won't spend this life waiting for you to find me or die in the attempt. Once this matter is over with, I'll turn myself over to you.  
Until then, be careful._

Athena lifts her eyes from the photograph to look up at Simon. He's looking back at her in silence, but no words are needed: his silence speaks volumes, and the clashing emotions in his heart are all too easy to hear.

"He may be lying," Apollo mutters beside her. There is some confusion but mostly anger coming from him, and Athena can't blame him for it. He lost his best friend to the Phantom – a friend who was murdered when he was just about to achieve his lifelong dream. It's not something you can simply forget about.

"He may be, yes," Blackquill says calmly, reaching to take back the photograph. "It would be far from his first lie. But it matters not – whether by his own volition or not, he'll be in my grasp before this is over. I simply want the two of you to look out for this man as well – and to let me know should you see him. A text message will do. Don't expose yourselves. If the Phantom thinks him dangerous, he likely is. Be careful."

_Until then, be careful._

"You too," Athena says, resting a hand on Blackquill's arm. "_Please_. Be careful. And... if you find him-"

Simon's hand comes to rest on her own. "If he's indeed going to turns himself over, if he chooses not to fight, then I'll have no reason to harm him. I have no wish to. If he has anything to say for himself, I'll listen."

Athena smiles and squeezes his hand. "Thanks," she says. Simon only nods before letting go of her hand and turning back to Apollo.

"See if you notice anything, but _do not_ go on the upper two decks. The Interpol and myself will be there, but we don't know what YggdraCorp is planning precisely. We know for certain that they brought some security on board, and they're likely armed," is all he says before turning to leave. It doesn't escape her how he's not mentioning the Phantom as a possible threat to their safety.

_He knows he's not. Whether he realizes it or not, he knows._

There are several moment of silence as they watch him walk upstairs among other, unsuspecting passengers. Athena is the first one to speak.

"We're still going to check the upper decks out, aren't we?"

"Of course. We may find something relevant," Apollo says quietly. And the Phantom, Athena knows he's thinking. "Not now, though. Let the Interpol do their thing. We'll check them out tomorrow. One of the passengers up there may just be the Phantom. We could find him by just looking, and listening," he adds.

They have discussed it before – that their combined abilities may be enough for them to recognize the Phantom if he comes close enough – and Athena must admit it doesn't seem too far-fetched. There is a chance they may recognize him that way.

But Athena doesn't truly wish to find him like this. It would be best for everyone – for her, for Simon, for LaRoche himself – if LaRoche truly turned himself over on his own will. There is no telling what would happen next, but she's sure that to Simon it would mean so much more than he's willing to let on.

As they leave neither of them notices the tall, lanky man with barely graying black hair who's watched the whole encounter from the staircase on their left.


	13. The Auction

_A/N: well, damn. This one got long. _And I doubt the next chapter is going to be any shorter, but at least I FINALLY made it to the juice of the story. Took me a while!__

_Many thanks to Keyanna __for proofreading!_

* * *

"Hey, boys. Can we talk for a moment?"

As both security guards turn to glance at him, Outis isn't excessively surprised to see neither of them looks especially smart. Of course looks can be deceiving – he knows it better than anyone else – but it's still amusing how the average goon will _always_ give off the vibe of having more brawn than brains.

"Sure. What is it?" one of them asks. Outis smiles.

"There has been a bit of a change of plans. Nothing major. You two are going to watch the stairs, right?"

A nod. "Yeah. We're supposed to send away anyone who tries to get past this deck. There's a rope to block the stairs and some sign saying there is a private event going on, so people should get the message, and elevators ain't reaching this deck. But you can never know. What change of plans?"

Outis waves his hand. "As I said, nothing major. But I'd like to ask you to position yourselves a bit differently – so that anyone who's coming upstairs won't see you until they're far enough into either hallway," he adds. He's confident that they'll do just as he says: Dr. Dote has given him complete authority over them. The chief of security didn't appreciate it, but you can't keep everyone happy.

The two men exchange a perplexed glance. "Uh... but what's the point? Aren't people who come upstairs supposed to see us so we can tell them to buzz off?"

"Oh, if people do get on this deck you'll certainly do as much. But you see, I'm expecting someone very specific to show up. A tall fellow with black hair and a white patch – he'll be hard to miss. I put a micro-camera down the staircase, and you can use it to see who's coming up without them noticing. If he does indeed show up while we're all upstairs for the auction, here's what I want you to do..."

* * *

As the Phantom – Harrison Fire – walks inside the lounge next to the casino where the auction will be held he's not especially surprised to realize he can recognize most people in there. He infiltrated many of the organizations these people represent, and he memorized their names, faces and roles to do so seamlessly. Terrorist organizations, for the most part... but also people with links to several countries' less than ethical intelligence, plus a few he recognizes as the lackeys of this or that wannabe dictator. There's even a tycoon the Phantom worked for once, before giving away his secrets to those who _really_ pulled the strings.

Plenty of familiar faces, and hardly anyone who _wouldn't_ love to see him dead.

It won't take much before they can satisfy that wish, he supposes, but before he goes he'll be making sure they'll get nothing out of this auction. He turns his attention away from the guests and glanced over at the other end of the room, where YggdraCorp's CEO and Outis are speaking. They're too far from him to hear anything over everyone's chattering, but that's not a problem. At one point – the Phantom has forgotten _when_ – he had to pose as someone who lost his hearing and relied on reading people's lips to understand what he was being told. Though it hadn't been necessary for the Phantom to learn to do that as well, he had still decided to do so. He was to _become_ that man, after all. That, and lip-reading could prove useful. Like just now.

_Everything is fine_, Outis is saying. _Security is watching this deck and the one below. I found no ladybugs anywhere. No one is on to us. If the spy is in here, I'll know_. _Go ahead and let me handle everything_.

But he's lying, there's no doubt about that. He knows that Blackquill is certainly on board, and he must imagine that so is the Interpol. What _is_ it he's planning?

"Like it, huh? Told you I can make the best Mojito!"

The Phantom turns as a voice, familiar and unfamiliar at the same time, reaches his ears. The Yatagarasu's latest persona, Yves Dropper, is currently at the drinks counter, mixing drinks and talking with the potential buyers who decided to wait for the auction to start with a drink in their hands. She's perfectly convincing in that role, talking with the guests and moving easily behind the counter, her gestures swift as though she's spent her life up to now mixing drinks. Not bad at all, the Phantom thinks, and approaches the counter.

"Good afternoon. May I have one as well?" he asks, and she nods with a wide grin. She's still smiling as she puts the Mojito down on the counter... along with a paper towel, which he readily takes. "Thank you," he says politely, and brings the glass to his lips. When he puts it down and brings the paper towel up to his mouth, he pauses a moment to see what is written on it.

_Casino full of ladybugs. Must be Interpol. Outis knows – saw signal jammer. Know what he's up to?_

Hell if I know, the Phantom thinks. Outis clearly wants YggdraCorp and its guests to keep thinking everything is fine... but to what end, he doesn't know. The Phantom brushes the towel over his mouth before crumpling it and putting it in his pocket. He takes another swig from the glass. "Not bad," he concedes.

Her smile widens. "So, is it the best Mojito you ever tried? Yes or no?"

_Know what he's up to? Yes or no?_

"I'm afraid not," Harrison Fire says with an apologetic smile. "But close enough."

_No, I don't. But I intend to find out._

* * *

"They're getting inside the casino, shifu!"

A couple of agents have to hastily step aside as Lang storms to the set on the table and reaches to put the free pair of headphones on his ears. There is the unmistakable noise of several people talking to each other all at once and moving around, then a door closing and what sounds like a few chairs scraping over the wooden floor.

"Ladies and gentleman, may I have your attention for a minute?" a female voice speaks up. It's one Lang heard before and one he expected to hear, though not the one he was hoping for. It's the voice of Dr. Ann T. Dote, sure enough. The CEO of YggdraCorp. He allows himself to smirk before he adjusts the headphones and listens even more intently.

"First of all, thank you for coming all the way here to see-"

There is a burst of static, so sudden and loud that is causes both Lang and the agent with the other set of headphones to wince. As the agent starts fiddling with the buttons and switches on the console, Lang rips his headphones off.

"They _know_," he growls, barely holding back from slamming his first on the console. He can tell his agent's efforts are useless: something must be tampering with the ladybugs. They'll hear nothing more than static from now on... and they haven't heard one single thing they could use to justify an intervention on their part. Without anything to go by, not even the slightest _shred_ of proof any wrongdoing is going on, they simply cannot do anything. Even if they were to find proof by forcing their way in, Lang has no doubt those bastards will use it to have any evidence they may collect declared illegal... and thus impossible to bring up on trial. It's a scenario Edgeworth has warned him about, and now that it's happening it feels like a nightmare.

The bastards have pulled out their teeth with one press of a button, and there is _nothing_ they can do about it.

"I take it they have taken precautions," a quiet voice rings out behind him, and Lang is abruptly reminded of Blackquill's presence in the room. He's standing near the door, apparently not at all surprised by the turn of events.

A frustrated growl leaves him. "Those snakes. They must have _known_ we'd be here."

Blackquill smirks. "We know for a fact that this Ulysses Outis knew I'd be there; imagining that you would as well must have not been much of a stretch. If what the Phantom wrote to me is true, that eel is working for YggdraCorp."

"And yet he gave you crucial information. He told you about the Phantom's fake execution, and that something would go down on this ship," Lang counters, anger and frustration causing something in his head to throb. "It makes no sense at all. Whose side is that man on?"

The laugh that leaves Blackquill is one of the bitterest Lang can remember hearing. "He's a spy, Lang-dono. Spies know no such thing as loyalty, no such thing as honor. They only ever stay on one side – their own. Not to be trusted as enemies, even less as allies. You of all people should know that. If he's indeed my mystery informant, this _Outis_ must have an agenda of his own. I'm not even ruling out the possibility he doesn't exist. He may very well be one more mask the Phantom has donned for whatever twisted reason. But those questions will receive an answer soon. I intend to find the truth."

Lang snorts. "And how? With nothing in our hands, we can't-"

"You can't. I _can_."

There is a long moment of silence, all the men staring at Blackquill. The technician has stopped trying to get the signal back, and his gaze keeps shifting from Lang to Blackquill and then back to Lang.

"... You can't be suggesting what you seem to be suggesting," Lang finally snorts. Does this lunatic truly think he's going to let him walk in that nest of vipers on his own?

Apparently, he does. "You're bound by international law, Lang-dono. You're here to officially investigate, and your unauthorized intervention or even mere _presence_ without concrete proof of some wrongdoing would only result with endless trouble for you. Those snakes would get away with whatever they're pulling. But me? I'm not here with the Interpol. Technically speaking, I'm simply a passenger."

"You were allowed to board with us, by _my_ request!"

"It doesn't change the fact I'm not officially here to investigate anything. I read the papers to make sure," Blackquill says, and that insufferable smirk of his is back. "I'm a lawyer, Lang-dono. I pay _very_ close attention to fine print. The Devil's in the details."

"The pack that runs together stays together. I can't allow you-"

"I'm not one of your _pack_, Lang," Blackquill cuts him off, a sharp edge in his voice, causing Lang to abruptly fall silent. When Blackquill speaks again, the sharpness is gone from his voice. "Let's say that I, a simple passenger, happen to trespass on the two upper decks. Let's say that hear or see something that could justify your intervention. Let's say I tell you of it. Wouldn't that be enough for you to authorize a roundup?"

Lang narrows his eyes. What Blackquill says is all true – and if this is what he means to do, he's powerless to stop him. He has no authority over him. "Don't ask questions whose answer you already know, hawk lawyer," he mutters. "You know full well that would be enough."

"Then I'd say we have spent enough time jabbering. I'll be on my way; I'll call you should I find anything or find myself in need of assistance."

With a snort, Lang stands. He doesn't like this, doesn't like it at all – but he has no authority to keep Blackquill from doing as he wishes. With nothing yet in their hands, those blasted decks aren't even a crime scene they can close down to visitors. And even if he could forbid him to go, it wouldn't be enough to stop Blackquill. Not while knowing that this accursed Phantom may be there.

Him, and perhaps Shih-na.

The thought of Shih-na causes a fresh wave of anger to roll through him, but he can keep it in check, for now. "Our ladybugs aren't working. We don't know how much of those decks they got covered against us. There is no guarantee any kind of communication device you may have will work anywhere up there."

"Tch. Then I'll see that I return here on my own two legs," is all Blackquill says before turning to leave.

"Wait."

Blackquill pauses, but he doesn't turn back. "What is it?"

Lang sighs and bows his head slightly. "Lang Zi says: all men are brothers, and all friends become family. Give me no reason to regret letting you have it your way, hawk lawyer."

For a moment Blackquill says nothing; he only speaks again as he reaches to open the door. "... If the worst happens, regret nothing. I never gave you a choice."

* * *

As she slips inside the ventilation duct opening on the restroom's ceiling and carefully places the grate back in place behind her the Yatagarasu wonders, not for the first time, if being hopelessly stupid is a necessary requirement for security guards.

Yves Dropper was to leave the lounge as soon as the auction started in the casino next door, of course: as part of the staff of the ship, entirely unaware of what would happen on that deck, she couldn't be allowed to stay. The men of the security were sure to escort her, another bartender and a couple of waiters who had been in the lounge off the deck, to take on their duties somewhere else.

All she had needed was a bit of a distraction – a leg darting out just at the right moment, a waiter falling down the stairs to crash on the two other staff members, the security guards either going to help them out or laughing their asses off – and she easily disappeared from their sight, quickly getting into the toilet she had already seen while observing the ship's outline.

Of course, someone will definitely come to check the toilet to make sure no one is hiding there, but she won't be found in it.

The Yatagarasu muffles a snicker – this really isn't the right moment to laugh – and starts moving silently, sliding down the air duct until she knows she's above the casino room; she can hear people talking beneath her, and listening is all she will do. As they're unable to communicate with good old Deep Throat right now – bringing any communication device that could be traced to the government was considered too risky, with the Interpol in the way – she and the Phantom can only rely on themselves, and remember very well everything they hear.

She stops some distance away from the grate that, she knows, opens up on the wall right beneath the ceiling. Taking a peek from there would be easy, but it could cause her to be spotted. She isn't risking it, especially not with that Outis guy on the lookout.

Well, with that Outis guy _apparently_ on the lookout. Truth be told, he seems to care a lot more about getting under the Phantom's skin than about doing anything in YggdraCorp's interest. After all, he has knowingly lied to its CEO over the presence of ladybugs in the room; she has to wonder what else he is hiding.

"Ladies and gentleman, may I have your attention for a minute?" Dr. Dote's voice reaches her, and the Yatagarasu promptly forgets her questions about Outis' plans. She's there to gather information, and that's precisely what she'll do – _listen_, just in case something goes wrong and the Phantom doesn't leave that room alive. Should that happen, should he be compromised or worse in there, she's of course supposed to leave him behind and escape so that she'll be able to report everything she's heard.

But then again, she was never very good at working by the book... and with all these fancy gadgets she's been given, not putting them to use would _really_ be a shame.

* * *

"... As the pictures plainly show – sir, do refrain from throwing up, we did warn you they were rather graphic – the body of whoever is exposed will start rotting in a brief time. How long that may take vastly depends on how the toxin is administered. It works quickest when injected, but if you wish for the Erysichthon to cover more ground you can use its gaseous form. In a sealed container, it can stay active for months and be just as deadly as the day it left the lab should you decide to release it. These are pictures taken during a test in which the subjects were exposed to a small amount the gas for less than a minute. As you can see, in less than a hour..."

As the explanation goes on, Outis holds back a sigh and leans against the wall. As he already knows everything about Erysichthon – he was never one to handle a weapon he didn't know as well as the back of his hand – their presentation interests him little. Of course, things are _very_ different for potential buyers: they're all extremely interested in everything that is being said, obviously. Once this presentation is over there will be a short break to let them think things over before the actual auction starts. Pity that none of them is going to get off this ship with the toxin's formula... nor as free people, most likely.

Outis smirks and reaches to touch the pen in his breast pocket. It's obviously not a pen: it's the switch of the signal jammer that's currently interfering with the ladybugs the Interpol has so dutifully planted in this room. Shame that they cannot listen to this... for now. He'll interrupt the signal when it's most convenient, as a roundup from the Interpol is precisely the kind of distraction he needs – as soon as Blackquill is in his hands. If he understands the man as well as he thinks he does, now that the Interpol's hands are tied and no one else could possibly try to find incriminating proof, it's only a matter of time before he walks straight in his arms.

Metaphorically speaking, obviously.

Outis holds back a chuckle at the mental image and allows his gaze to shift to Harrison Fire's back. There he is, his old student, sitting right next to the CEO and listening to the detailed explanation just as the potential buyers are doing. Outis can't help but feel some measure of pride, even though he knows it doesn't change the fact his masterpiece is broken beyond help: he's played Fire's role flawlessly, utterly fooling everyone else in the company.

And even _him_, in a way. Even though he's known for a while that good old Robb was likely among the top tanks in YggdraCorp, he never had any reason to suspect Fire more than others. Only the trick with caviar allowed him to single him out. But now he knows, and the individual he once knew as Johan has no idea. He'll know soon, of course – one of the very _last_ things he'll ever get to know.

The Interpol's roundup worries him little: he'll have already left this deck by then, with Blackquill and the lives of thousands in his hands, and there is no doubt in his mind that his old student will know how to escape it as well. He'll easily walk out of the Interpol's clutches... and straight into his.

_Soon, my boy_, Outis thinks almost sadly as he keeps looking at Harrison Fire's back._ It will be over soon_.

* * *

Even as he walks up the stairs leading to the first of the two decks YggdraCorp has reserved for its own shady dealings, Blackquill is acutely aware of how _flawed_ his plan is. It isn't even much of a plan, if he must be honest with himself: it simply consists of seeking out the one person he was specifically warned not to face on his own – Ulysses Outis, or whoever in the blazes this man truly is.

It's a shame that he couldn't be honest with Lang about what he meant to do, giving him the excuse of_ taking a look_ instead. Still, it was a necessary lie to keep Lang from trying harder to stop him.

It is risky, he knows, and little more than a shot in the dark, but what other choice does he have? If nothing is done, whatever YggdraCorp is doing will stay unknown... and the Phantom may slip through his fingers once again.

As much as part of him wishes to believe what he's read in his message – that he'll willingly turn himself over to him – Blackquill can't bring himself to truly do so. The Phantom has broken his trust before, first as Bobby Fulbright and then as Robert LaRoche. His word is worth less than a dull and broken blade.

_Spies know no such thing as loyalty, no such thing as honor_.

Blackquill chases away the thought: this is not the right moment for him to indulge in such musings. He'll face the Phantom when the moment comes; now all he has to do is focus on making it to the upper decks. He wishes, not for the first time, that he could bring Taka inside: he would provide some much needed help. But he couldn't let him inside without drawing attention, and thus he had to simply get him to follow the ship from above, resting on its highest rails from time to time. While Taka may be of help should he face a danger while outside, in here he's on his own.

Athena and Justice would certainly be willing to help him, he knows, but this is the very last thing he wishes to involve either of them in. If this Outis is half as good as he seems to be, he must expect him to come looking for answers... and if he truly holds such interest, he will likely show himself. And, perhaps, so will the Phantom. Either way, he might find _answers_.

And answers are all he's after.

When he reaches the top of the stairs, Blackquill is more than slightly surprised to see there are no security guards to be seen. There is a small hall and then a hallway stretching in two directions from there – one on his left leading to the luxurious cabins YggdraCorp has reserved for its management and their guests, and the other leading to more stairs... which lead to the upper deck, and to the casino where they're meeting right now.

As far as he can see, there is no one around... and he has seen few things in his life that reeked of a trap more than this.

But if this is their game, then fine. He has to do _something_, and being caught is likely the fastest way for him to meet either this Outis, or the Phantom... or both.

Which isn't to say he'll surrender without a fight. Who knows, he thinks as he starts walking down the hallway leading to the casino, perhaps he'll be able to subdue whoever stands in his way and go face Outis on his own rather than as a prisoner. It's worth trying, he supposes.

Blackquill smirks around the feather in his mouth when a door he just stepped past opens and a gruff voice orders him to freeze.

* * *

"You know there's probably going to be _some_ security, right?"

Athena gives Apollo what she hopes looks like a confident smile. "Don't worry, we'll find our way around that," she says, her voice low as they walk up the steps. They just got past the rope at the end of the stairs and a sign that reads 'PRIVATE EVENT - NO UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS', so it's obvious that the folks up there don't want anyone to intrude.

They did cook up some excuses to use if caught, of course. They're both dressed as staff members – it was great how Trucy was able to snatch those uniforms for them, even though Apollo's is a bit too wide on the shoulders and the sleeves are too long – and each of them carrying a bucket with ice and a bottle of Champagne. Well, the bottles are actually filled with water, but hopefully they look convincing enough while in the bucket. The plan is to claim that they were called there to deliver the bottles to Ulysses Outis... if anything because it's the _only_ name they actually know, thanks to the Phantom's message.

It's not much of a lie and it will crumble if anyone bothers to actually _check_, but it's better than having to no excuse at all. Besides, if they're lucky, they may be able to avoid the security altogether... and then they'd be able to do what they have planned on doing from the start: _watching_ and _listening_. Between the two of them, they may be able to-

A noise coming from upstairs causes her to stop in her tracks, and Apollo pauses as well. "What is it?"

"I heard something. It was like a thud, or-"

"You piece of – _ow_!"

"Hmph. Is this all you can do?"

This time what reaches them is a shout, by a voice Athena recognizes right away – this time loud enough for Apollo to hear as well.

_Simon_, Athena thinks in sudden fear, _Simon is there and there seems to be a fight going on, and...! _

For a moment she stands still, as does Apollo, but it lasts no more than a moment: the next instant they're both running up the stairs to get to the upper deck. The shouts are coming from the hallway to their right, so that's where they run... only to stop in their tracks once again.

Simon is there, and so are three men, all dressed in black suits. Two of them are on the ground, one of them apparently passed out and the other groaning and rubbing his head; Simon is standing, giving them his back, and before him stands a third man who's aiming a gun straight at his face.

"You son of a- don't make one more move, or I'm going to shoot that head off your shoulders!"

"Hmph. If you haven't shot me yet, then you're not going to. You were told to capture me alive, weren't you? I wondered how come they didn't send someone more skilled against me," Simon retorts, and Athena can _feel_ smugness coming off him in waves. Despite the situation, it's almost funny. Of course, it gets a _lot_ less amusing when the guy's eyes shift and he sees her and Apollo from over Simon's shoulder. His surprised expression doesn't escape Simon, and causes him to instinctively turn. When his eyes rest on him and Apollo, he seems to suddenly get paler.

"What in the blazes are you-" he starts, but he gets to say nothing more – because the next instant Athena sees the security guard turn his attention on Simon and raise his gun, ready to bash him over the head with its handle, and she acts before she can pause to _think_.

With a cry of warning – _"Duck!"_ – she throws the bucket filled with ice straight at him. Simon ducks under it, but the other man isn't as fast. The bottle falls to smash on the ground, and so does most of the ice, but the bucket itself hits him right on the head and causes him to stagger back with a cry, his gun falling on the floor. Athena isn't going to give him the time to pick it up.

"Hey, wait!" Apollo tries to call out, but she's already rushing past him, past a still stunned Simon and to the man who's just starting to regain his footing. She grabs both his arm, turns and throws him through the air over her shoulder. A nice rough landing on the floor should-

"OOF!"

… Well, a nice rough landing on Apollo should work just as well to knock him out.

"Sorry! I didn't think you ran after me! Are you hurt?" she asks, bringing her hands to her mouth as Apollo crawls out from under the bulk of the security guard. If anything, the guy is now out cold anyway.

Apollo pulls himself on his feet with a groan. "I'm fine. Can you please... never do that again?"

"Nunca más!"

"Is there _any_ reason for your presence here?" Simon asks, ignoring Apollo entirely and staring at Athena through narrowed eyes. "It's entirely too dangerous!"

Athena gives him a sheepish grin. "Yeah, well, we thought- hey, wait a moment!" she protests, folding her arms over her chest. "We just saved your butt! What are _you_ doing here? Where's the Interpol?"

Simon snorts. "There was an unexpected problem that forced me to take the matter into my own hands. That shouldn't be of your concern. The situation was perfectly under control."

**The guy had a gun to your head!**, Widget chimes in.

"Tch. As you may have heard, they were obviously ordered to capture me alive; one of them would have discharged their gun on me sooner if that wasn't the case."

Athena decides to let the matter drop. "What unexpected problem? Why isn't the Interpol handling this?"

As Simon quickly explains them what has happened she doesn't notice – none of them does – that one of the unconscious guards isn't unconscious anymore... and that he's silently reaching for the gun the other one just dropped.

* * *

"... Imagine the possibilities..."

"... One could threaten an entire country with that..."

The Phantom isn't at all surprised, as he listens to the potential buyers talking among themselves, that the presentation got them even more interested in buying Erysichthon's formula. Any of them, especially the terrorist groups, could easily think of several ways to use the toxin... and none of them good.

It's a good thing that even if the Interpol can do nothing they'll all be taken into custody as soon as the ship reaches the American soil again, he thinks as he excuses himself to the restroom. Outis' signal jammer isn't close enough to keep him from using the communication device in his watch, and he's able to forward everything he's recorded in the casino directly to Proteus. It's more than enough to end YggdraCorp and make sure its guests are treated accordingly.

He's barely done sending when he hears a low whistle coming from the ceiling. He looks up to see a familiar face grinning down at him from the grate covering the air vent.

"Hey. Good thing I didn't catch you at the urinal. Did you send everything you recorded?"

"Just now. You heard everything, haven't you?"

"Yep. The record makes that kinda useless, but oh well. I'll stay in the ducts through the auction, too. Don't want to risk being spotted."

The Phantom nods. "Good idea. There is no point in -" he trails off when he hears something: steps right outside, someone humming and then the door starting to open. He immediately opens the tap to wash his hands, and he doesn't need to look up to see that the Yatagarasu has retreated somewhere out of sight. Just in time, too: Outis walks in the next moment, whistling. The pen-jammer is gone from his pocket, and the Phantom assumes he left it behind to keep the casino shielded from ladybugs while he's away.

"Mr. Fire," Outis greets him, sounding rather pleased to see him. He walks up to the sink right next to him. "That was quite the presentation. The buyers are all most impressed. I expect this to be an exciting auction."

Harrison smiles. "So we hope," he says. "I'm glad everything went smoothly. Dr. Dote was rather worried. So was I, I must confess, when that facility in Reijam was infiltrated. Do you believe those spies are on board as well?" he asks. He asks because Harrison Fire would ask, and because he's wondering just how close to guessing his identity this man may be. Outis smiles, rinsing his hands once more.

"Oh, I'm sure everything will go well. As for the spies, I know at least one of them is on board. The Phantom, as he's called. At the presentation, even. But not to worry – I know _precisely_ who he's masquerading as. He'll be dealt with very soon."

The Phantom feels as though he's just swallowed ice, but he keeps himself from showing as much. This Outis may be bluffing, or he may be referring to someone other than Harrison Fire. He may be wrong... or he may be playing with him like a cat with a mouse. Either way, there is one thing the Phantom absolutely cannot do now – break character.

"Here, at the auction?" he asks, with the worried tone Harrison Fire would show. "My God – is it one of the buyers? Who is it?"

Outis laughs. It's a pleasant laugh, as always, but one the Phantom instinctively dislikes. "An old acquaintance of mine. You could say he was the best student I ever had. Good enough to surpass his teacher, if I may say so. But that was before they broke him, I'm afraid."

_Student...?_

"Broke him?" Harrison repeats, sounding rather perplexed, and he doesn't move when Outis chuckles and puts a hand on his shoulder.

"I _created_ him, in more ways than one. I made him what he was – which is to say _nothing_ and _everything_. I was proud of him as I've never been proud of anyone before or since. He was my masterpiece," he adds wistfully, and something in the Phantom's memory seems to stir when he hears that.

_My masterpiece_.

He has no time to wonder further, though, because the next moment Outis speaks again and everything is suddenly clear – like he's found the key piece of a puzzles and all the pieces are falling into place just as they should have from the start.

"His name was lost long before he became mine to shape – but when he did, he was known as Johan."

It's like the flip of a switch, and suddenly the Phantom knows precisely who this man is. His name is different and so is his face now, but it has to be him – because only one person ever called him that, only one person ever claimed to have created him.

_We can teach you better. We can teach you how to be invisible. How to hide in plain sight, leaving no sign you ever even existed._

_A clear mind. No emotions, no mindless impulses. Logic and control. You are nothing – nothing but this. There is nothing else, nothing to conceal as we have __to__ do. A clean slate. You'll be perfect._

_I'm not like you, my boy. Will never be. But nothing keeps far from perfect people from creating a masterpiece._

Umber, the Phantom thinks, it's _Umber_ – the man who trained him and whom he forgot all about until now, his memory fading into the mist that seemed to cover most of his life before the day he donned his first mask and stole someone else's identity. Now it makes sense, _all_ of it. And this fixation on him being broken, his interest in Blackquill – is he referring to how he was caught, how he regained his sense of self? Does he blame Blackquill for, as he puts it, _breaking_ him?

Nothing of what he's thinking shows on Harrison Fire's face, of course. He's better than that – _Umber_ has trained him better than that. How ironic.

"And you say he was broken? How?"

Outis – _Umber_ – gives a bitter smile. "It's a long story. Suffice to say that he's not what he used to be. That will be his downfall, and that of the one responsible," he says, and takes his hand off the Phantom's shoulder. "If you'll excuse me. I'll see you inside, won't I? As I said, this auction will probably prove to be exciting."

"Of course," is all Harrison says, and Outis leaves the restroom with a nod and not another word. There are a few moments of silence as the Phantom stares at the door, only to be startled out of his incredulity by a familiar voice coming from above.

"So you used to be chums," the Yatagarasu mutters.

"That's hardly a term I'd choose. He trained me."

"So he's been stalking Blackquill because he was jealous?"

The Phantom scoffs. "Don't be ridiculous. He blames him for... _breaking_ me."

"Hah! Weird, isn't it? A sane person would say he _fixed_ you. Well, at least some," she says. "Do you think he knows he just spoke to _you_?"

"... He might," the Phantom says slowly. "But it changes nothing. I have to keep this up as long as I can. I'll be there for the rest of the auction."

She sighs. "I almost hope something happens so I can get some action. Like bursting right in and saving your sorry ass."

"If I'm indeed compromised, the protocol expects you to leave me to be killed or kill me yourself. Not to expose yourself as well."

"Pfffft...!" she snorts, but this time she can keep from laughing; all that leaves her is some kind of nasal honk. "As if! Do we really need to have this conversation again? I told you- hey, your watch!"

The Phantom looks down to see that his watch's screen is suddenly alight. He frowns and reaches to press a button – and then freezes, too surprised to speak for a moment. "Cykes," he murmurs.

"What? What is it?"

"... The tracking chip on Cykes. It says she's on the deck beneath us," the Phantom says, thinking quickly. What is Cykes doing there? Why is she there? How did she get past the security? "She shouldn't be there. It's dangerous. I'm going to see what's going on."

"Since when are you her babysitter?" the Yatagarasu asks, but the Phantom ignores her.

"You stay where you are," is all he says before walking through the door and in the hallway. There is no one in sight but the security standing before the lounge's door, and it's not there he's heading: he turns his back to them and walks to the stairs leading to the lower deck, trying to look as casual as possible. He only starts running when he turns the corner and reaches the stairs. He's on the lower deck in moments, and then-

"Is there _any_ reason for your presence here?"

Blackquill's voice, coming from just around the corner, causes him to freeze – but it's only for one moment. As much as he _doesn't_ want to face him now, he needs to see what's going on and how they got past the security. He needs to make them leave before they alert the _rest_ of security. He needs to keep them safe.

As he silently takes a look around the corner, the Phantom isn't too surprised to see that all three security guards on that floor are on the ground, seemingly unconscious – and Blackquill is arguing with Cykes and Justice, apparently. Well, mostly with Cykes. "We just saved your butt! What are _you_ doing here?"

An excellent question, the Phantom thinks, but he doesn't listen to whatever reply Blackquill may be giving: the next moment he realizes that one of the security guards isn't unconscious anymore and is actually silently reaching for a gun across the floor. Busy as they are talking, none of them has noticed.

But the Phantom has, and he acts as quickly as possible. The next moment he's around the corner, rushing toward them as quickly as he possibly can, just as the guard lifts his gun. Hearing the noise of his footsteps on the carpeted floor, Cykes turns just one moment before he grips the man's arm and snatches the gun from his hand. There is a surprised yelp from the guard and a muttered curse from Blackquill, but the Phantom is faster than them both: his other arm shoots out to grab the closest person to him – Athena Cykes – and pull her against him, pressing the gun against the side of her head in the same motion.

Blackquill's raised hand stills, and so does Justice's, when they realize that Cykes is being held at gunpoint.

"Athena!"

"Fire," Blackquill seethes. "I should have known you weren't as innocent as you tried to-"

"Quiet," Harrison's voice snaps. "Attempt to do anything, prosecutor, and she dies," he adds, pressing the gun harder against the side of Cykes' head. They obey, of course, for they have no choice, and glare daggers at him. Blackquill looks for all the world like he's trying to make him burst in flames through sheer willpower – but neither dares to move, not now that they think Cykes' life is on the line.

And this is just what he aimed for, because as long as they don't attempt anything he can keep them from being killed. If either of them tried anything now, the YggdraCorp men would shoot them in an instant... and there would be nothing he could do to stop it without revealing himself. As things are now, taking Cykes hostage to make sure Blackquill doesn't get himself killed is the only feasible option.

"You slithering _eel_," Blackquill snarls, his disgust evident. The Phantom gives a laugh, Harrison Fire's laugh, but there is nothing behind it: he forces himself to shut down all emotion and keep his mind clear.

"A sore loser, aren't you?" he mutters instead, taking a few steps back with Cykes still at gunpoint, one arm tight around her. He turns to the security guard who's still getting on his feet. "Get the others up as well."

He does, even though it takes a few moments for one of them to finally awaken and a few more for him to stand. He rubs his head and glares at Blackquill. "You're lucky Mr. Outis told us not to kill you," he growls.

Outis, the Phantom thinks. But _of course_ this is his doing – he should have known. "What did Outis tell you to do with them?" he asks.

"The library over there," the man grunts, nodding at a set of double doors that opens on the hallway, only a few steps from them. "No windows, and a signal jammer is already in. If he showed up, he told us to lock him in there and guard the door. Weren't expecting the brats, though."

"... I see," the Phantom says, the gun still pressed against the side of Cykes' head. Emotion still shut down, he thinks of the most logical course of action. He needs to be back for the rest of the auction, or else his cover may be blown beyond repair before he can gather more information at the auction. It seems that the only way to do so is going along with Outis' plan for now, as little as he likes the idea of getting Blackquill get locked anywhere Outis can access. But on the other hand, he may be able to get him out before Outis has time to actually get there. Now keeping his act up and Blackquill out of the picture are his main priorities.

"Do get them in there, then. That kid, too," Harrison adds, nodding towards Justice. "In, or she dies."

Blackquill glares death at him, but both him and Justice do as they're told. Once they're in, the Phantom nods. "Lock them in," he orders, his grip on Cykes still firm.

"Wait! Let her go!" Justice protests, and the Phantom – Harrison Fire – snorts.

"I think I'll keep her with me instead. An insurance, if you will, to make sure you don't try anything foolish. Stay put, and I won't split one hair of her head," he says. He glances at the men and nods. "Lock them in," he says. As long as they're locked in, unable to do anything, they're safe... at least for a time.

"No! Athena!" Justice exclaims, only to freeze when both men raise their guns against him and the Phantom presses his own gun harder against Cykes' head.

"Stay where you are and she won't be harmed," he says coldly, then smiles at Blackquill – because that's what Harrison Fire would do. "If you try anything, I'll kill her. And the responsibility will be yours alone," he adds, and he has only a moment to gaze at the sheer fury on Blackquill's face before the door closes and one of the men locks it. He nods at them. "Guard it. Make sure they don't set foot outside until the end of the auction. I'll tell Outis you got them myself – no need to bother him," he says, not at all intending to do a such thing. If Outis doesn't know Blackquill has been caught, he'll be able to gain some time. He finally glances down at Cykes. "As for you-" he starts, but he trails off when he finally sees her expression.

She hasn't spoken a word in the past couple of minutes, and now he can see why: she's staring up at him with wide eyes, and the realization of what it is he's seeing on her face chills him to the bone. It's _recognition_.

In a split of a second, the Phantom knows he's made a grave mistake. Shutting down all emotions allowed him to keep his mind clear, yes – but it also means that, pressed up against him as she is, she could hear his heart very clearly... and she could certainly sense the lack of emotion as well, a lack that so far she only ever noted in one person. Only one. Only _him_.

"_You_," she breathes, thankfully too quietly for any of the men standing before them to hear – and the Phantom presses the gun harder against the side of her head before she can speak again.

"Quiet," he growls. "_Please_," he adds under his breath.

Cykes stares up at him for several more moments, eyes still wide and bewildered, but she says nothing more. The Phantom breathes a little more easily and looks over at the men. "Watch the door. I'll lock her in my cabin," he adds, and none of them says anything as he drags her away with him, down the hallway. It doesn't take them too long to reach the cabin; he leads her in, letting the door close behind them. Still, he doesn't let her go just yet. "... You recognized me," he finally says quietly, with his own voice. "I... feared you would."

Cykes seems to shake against him, and it takes him a moment to realize she's giving an odd, somewhat hysterical laugh. "It's really _you_," she says, her voice shaky. "But... the execution... how... _why_...?"

The Phantom sighs. "It's a long story."

"Well, a condensed version will do. Possibly after you, uh, point that gun somewhere else."

He glances at the gun he's still holding up to her head. "Do I have your word that you won't try anything stupid if I release you?" he asks quietly.

"Yeah, I guess. I ran out of knives to stick in your hands. That, and you still have a gun."

"... I won't use it," he says with a sigh, and finally releases her. She turns to look at him, but she still looks more bewildered than anything else. His lips curl into a wry smile.

You look like you've seen a ghost, he almost says. It certainly sounds like something the Yatagarasu would say, which is exactly the reason why he _doesn't_ say it.

"How?" she asks again, wonder plain on her face.

He puts the gun away: he has no intention of using it on her; no point in keeping it out. She doesn't even seem to notice, and he realizes only now that she didn't really think he would use it... at least not after she recognized him. "My execution was faked. My skills were still valuable to... someone else."

"So... you never died," she states.

"... That seems the most logical conclusion, yes."

"So the execution... You knew you wouldn't... Everything you said, how much of it did you _mean_?"

_Thank you. For... for giving me a name, for making me someone. Thank you for not giving up on me. And... I'm sorry. For what it's worth, and I know it's worth less than nothing, I'm sorry_.

The Phantom sets his jaw. "LaRoche meant every word of it," he says flatly. "And LaRoche died, as he was supposed to. There is a grave to prove it."

She scowls. "What are you talking about? _You_ are LaRoche. You-"

"Not anymore," the Phantom cuts her off, his voice suddenly colder to warn her not to press the point any further. And she doesn't, thankfully: after giving him a somewhat doubtful look, she turns her attention on more pressing matters.

"So... why are you here? Why are you posing as someone from YggdraCorp?"

"I and another _colleague_ have been looking into YggdraCorp's business as well. We know what they're up to, and it is our intention to put a stop to it."

Cykes blinks at him for a few moments, but aside from that she's pretty quick to grasp the situation. Her expression suddenly lightens up in a smile, startling him slightly. "So we're really on the same side! Sweet!" she exclaims, hitting her hand with a fist.

The Phantom raises an eyebrow. "That's hardly a reaction I'd expect from most people," he says.

She blinks again. "Huh? Why?"

Because I killed your mother for one, the Phantom almost says, but he sees no real point in it. He already used that argument on several occasions to no avail, which has long since led him to the conclusion Athena Cykes is not a creature of logic by any stretch of imagination. "Never mind. In any case, I'd hardly say we're on the same side."

She shrugs. "Why not? We want to take them down, too. We're _so_ going to kick them ten ways to Sunday!"

"I wouldn't say so. So far, you and the Interpol have been a hindrance."

"Hey, come on now! Blame Simon and the wolfman. I was only here for the magic show," she protests.

"I'm rather confident there is no magic show going on on this deck."

"... Apollo and I may have gotten lost."

"You're not even _trying_ to be believable, are you?"

She puts her hands on her hips. "Says Mr. Undercover Investigator! _Took your family hostage_, huh?"

The Phantom scoffs. "That was meant to buy me some ti-"

"Maybe my mother? My son? Or, my daughter! Maybe it was all of them! I'm so sad and worried!" she presses on in a lousy imitation of Bobby Fulbright's voice.

"I was aiming to create mass confusion to-" the Phantom starts, then he pauses and sighs. "... Very well. Let's say I believe you."

She grins. "Great. So, uh... why did you hold me at gunpoint anyway?"

"Isn't it obvious?" he asks flatly, causing her to puff out her cheeks and cross her arms.

"Hey, you're the criminal mastermind here. Enlighten me."

He sighs. "If Blackquill tried anything, and I know he would have, he'd be at risk. I had to make sure that wouldn't happen. Taking you hostage was the quickest option; any other would have forced me to reveal myself, and I can't do it just yet. As long as he and Justice stay locked in there, they're safe."

_And as long as Outis doesn't get to them before me_.

Cykes hums and reaches up to toy with her earring. "If Simon doesn't cut down Apollo out of frustration."

The Phantom's lips curl in a faint smirk. "I wouldn't put it past him, but there is naught I can do about that."

She smiles back, but it's not one of her usual smiles. "So... this is all about protecting Simon, isn't it?"

He sees no point in denying it. "And you, if you'll allow me," he says. She helped bringing Robert LaRoche back from the void of nothingness he slept in, and tried to save that life in court. He cannot forget that. "I'll do all I can to make sure no harm comes to him, or Justice. As much as it's worth, you have my word."

She nods, and bites her lower lip. "The fact you're alive, he... he didn't take it well," she says, looking down as though suddenly uncomfortable. "He's looking for you."

"... I'm aware of that," the Phantom says, and looks away. "He was not supposed to know. He was supposed to move on. I never thought he would find out," he says.

Cykes bites her lower lip. "Are you going to... when _this_ is over, will you really turn yourself in? I mean, I guess that's the right thing, but... it would mean the death sentence, _again_."

The Phantom suddenly feels tired, so very _tired_. "I don't truly have a choice. And neither do you, I'm afraid."

"What...?" she starts, but she has no time to say anything more before the Phantom lifts his arm, the one with the watch. A small tranquilizer dart shoots from the side of it and hits her at the base of her neck, causing her to yelp and reach up for it. She tries to step back, but her legs fail her and she almost falls. Almost, because the Phantom catches her before she can hit the ground.

"My apologies. I can't allow you out just yet. You'll be safe here, for time being," he says, lifting her. As he leans her down on the bed, he can see she's already asleep. For a moment he wonders if she heard his apology, but then again it doesn't matter: there will be time for him to apologize later, when this is over.

He has no idea that they'll both be on the brink of death an hour from now, and he'll have to choose whose life to save.


	14. Ultimatum

_A/N: this chapter turned so long I had to split it in two. This is the first half; I'll post the second one next weekend._  
_(Yes, I know this update was much faster than usual. I think it speaks volumes on how I was looking forward to get to this part.)_

_Thanks a lot to Keyanna for proofreading. There were a lot of mistakes in this one, so thanks a lot for your patience!_

* * *

"_Nothing_."

The word that leaves Blackquill sounds more like a snarl than proper human speech, and he has to hold back from throwing his cellphone across the door... or directly into Justice's conveniently vast forehead. The goon was telling the truth: there must be some kind of signal jammer in the room, making it impossible for them to contact anyone. They're trapped in, they can't call for help, and Athena is being held hostage. The situation couldn't possibly get worse... and Blackquill turns on the only person within his grasp he can hold responsible for this.

"What on _Earth_ were you doing here? I told both of you to steer clear!"

The outburst causes Justice to wince and step back. He brings up his hands as though to shield himself. "I- We thought we could-!"

"_Poppycock_! You spared no time at all to _think_! You put yourselves in danger for no reason – you put Athena in danger for no reason! Wasn't one lost friend _enough_ for you, Justice?"

Blackquill knows he's crossed the line the moment those words leave him. Justice's fear seems to vanish, only to be replaced by fury. "We were looking for the Phantom and we wanted to help you out. Athena was _worried_ about you, and now that she's been taken all you can do is playing the blame game? _Seriously_?"

He is right, Blackquill knows. Letting anger rule him will get them precisely nowhere. He draws in a deep breath and nods. "... Very well. Fair enough. My apologies."

"And it's not like- wait, what?" Justice stammers, taken aback. His anger seems to vanish all at once. "Did you just _apologize_?"

"Hmph. Are your amazing perceiving capabilities balanced by a defective hearing?" Blackquill snorts, and looks around. They've been locked in what looks like a small library, with no windows, a few sturdy tables and armchairs and book-filled shelves on all walls. "The signal jammer must be in here somewhere. If we can find it and break it, when we might be able to call Agent Lang and request immediate help."

Justice nods. "Good point. So I suppose we'll have to make it cease its jammering," he says in a rather lousy imitation of Blackquill's own voice. The grin on his face fades before Blackquill's unamused look. "... You'd find that funny if Athena said it."

"... Refrain from further embarrassing yourself and help me find that infernal device."

A sigh. "Okay."

* * *

As he locks the door behind himself and puts the key card in his breast pocket, Harrison Fire looks perfectly calm. And the Phantom truly is calm, or at least he's willing himself to be. He has to.

_Mind over matter. I am no one. Nothing but an endless abyss._

Of the three security guards, two are now guarding the door and one more moved to the bottom of the stairs. It's so that he can send away anyone who tries to approach before they can get close enough to hear either Blackquill or Justice calling out through the door of the room they're locked into, sure enough. Still, it doesn't seem to be necessary: when Harrison Fire stops before the door, he can hear nothing coming from inside. It's hardly a surprise, since they know that screaming now would put Athena in danger... or at least, so they think. For their own sake, they had better keep thinking so for a while.

"Is everything alright?" he asks, pausing before the security guards.

"Yeah. They know they gotta behave now," on of them mutters, carefully touching a bruise on his cheekbone. "That son of a bitch could fight, damn him."

"What about the girl?" the other one – the one from whose hand he yanked the gun – asks.

"She's currently unconscious, bound and locked away. Don't concern yourselves about her."

"Alright. Look, uh... we could have handled the guy. Really. We're pros. But we didn't expect those other two – Outis only warned us about Mr. Black and White."

"I understand. Do not worry, I'll personally tell Outis what happened. Make sure they stay locked in," he adds before walking past them and back to the upper deck, to the casino. He doesn't want to be absent when the auction resumes, as his absence would certainly be noticed.

As he goes upstairs he doesn't hear, _cannot _hear, the security guards speaking amongst themselves.

"Didn't he say he'll tell him anyway?"

"Look, I don't care. Outis told _us_ to let him know if we got the guy, so I'm gonna send him that message anyway. He's not the kind of guy I'd like to make angry. Worst that could happen is that he hears about it twice. No harm done, right?"

"Yeah. True enough."

* * *

_Blackquill and someone else came along. Locked them up. Mr. Fire got hostage so they won't act up_.

Outis raises an eyebrow, rather surprised by the second part of the message. So Blackquill was not alone? Now that's unexpected, he has to admit, though not as much as knowing the Phantom had a hand in locking him up. It probably was for Blackquill's own safety, he muses... but what's this about a hostage? Who may it be? When may he have taken them?

For a moment Outis is tempted to go and find out, but a quick glance at his watch is enough for him to decide against it. The auction is about to start, and he cannot be absent. Not from the very start, at least... but let them see him there before he leaves, taking with him the one thing that keeps them protected from the Interpol – the signal jammer.

The auction is just about to start again when Outis walks back in the casino. He politely nods at a few people – Harrison Fire included, of course – and smiles at the CEO before he picks up the pen-jammer he left there and leans once again against the wall. As the auction starts, with YggdraCorp's experts answering all lingering question from the potential buyers, no one is looking at him anymore. Not even _Harrison_, because he can't possibly turn to look at him without his movement being obvious... and last thing he'd want is being caught turning to look at him, Outis is sure. Harrison Fire wouldn't, and so neither will he. He'll act like nothing is wrong until he's _forced_ to break character by circumstances, precisely as he was trained to do.

He was always such a good pupil. The very best.

Outis allows himself one last look at Harrison Fire's back before he silently opens the door to leave, the signal jammer with him. He's certain it won't take the Interpol much to hear something that would allow them to intervene, but he trusts that by then he'll already be away from there along with Blackquill. Tricking him won't be too difficult: he used a different voice when calling him, and the prosecutor never saw his face.

He cannot imagine how wrong he is.

* * *

"Where _is_ he?"

Even as he growls the question, pacing back and forth, Lang knows none of his men has the answer. It's been too long, he thinks, and Blackquill has not yet called. He dares not call him, for it could lead him to be discovered for all he knows, and he's starting to regret allowing that fool to go there by himself.

_If the worst happens, regret nothing. I never gave you a choice_.

_Blackquill, you bastard...!_

"Shifu! We have a transmission!"

Lang's head turns to quickly that he can almost hear a crack coming from his neck, but it pays it no mind. The next moment is at the console, putting on the second set of headphones. Sure enough, now he can hear everything – voices, a few chuckles... and one voice especially, louder than the others.

He glances to his left to make sure the technician is recording everything – he is – and turns his full attention to what he's hearing. He has no idea what caused the interference to disappear, but he's not going to complain: now he can only hope that they'll soon say something that will give them a good reason to intervene... so that he can arrest them all, and find out where in the world Blackquill is.

He won't be disappointed.

* * *

"Athena. So that's what they called the woman?"

"Yes. No idea who the other kid is, though."

Outis smiles. "Not to worry, boys. I think I can guess who it is, although it's not someone especially involved. It really is true that you find attorneys everywhere these days. And Mr. Fire said he brought this Athena to his cabin, right?"

A nod. "Yeah. Mr. Fire said she's bound and unconscious. He took her hostage, to make those two behave. I'd say it worked. "

Of course it did, Outis thought, because at this point the Phantom must know that Blackquill is in danger. He must have figured that, at the moment, keeping him locked up was the only way to keep him safe until he had the time to think of some other plan. Too bad he won't give him any time to do so. Justice's presence is a bit unexpected, but disposing of him won't be a problem. Once he's disposed of these two, of course.

"I see. Thank you, boys. You did an outstanding job. I'm sorry this has to happen."

"Wha-?" one of them starts, but he has no time to add anything else. The stun gun hits him straight in the chest, and the electric charge it releases is enough to make him crumple with barely a noise. The other one does let out a noise, one that could turn into a cry if given enough time – but Outis gives no time to cry out, no time to pull out the gun. One moment, one electric charge, and he falls heavily against the door as well.

Just like that, they're both out cold – and now there is nothing but a door between Outis and his prey.

* * *

"Hey, did you hear that?"

Blackquill – who has paused with his search, the handful of books he had taken off a shelf still in his arms – nods. He heard it too, all right: a thud against the wooden door that's keeping them trapped in there. And now there is another sound, that of a door being unlocked. Blackquill immediately drops the books and takes a step back as the door opens. The guards are on the floor, unconscious, but all Blackquill can stare at is the man standing in the doorway. A tall, lanky man with black hair whose face he has already seen.

_You must look out for this man. He goes by the name of Ulysses Outis, and he has shown an uncanny interest in you... While I don't know who he precisely is yet, I can tell he's dangerous._

Unaware of his thoughts, the man smiles. "Prosecutor Blackquill. I'm sorry it took me so long to get to you."

As Justice stays silent at his side – he recognized him as well, he must have, for he has shown him the picture – Blackquill narrows his eyes. "Who might you be? You know me, but I don't know _you_."

The man gives him an easy smile. "I'm here on the Interpol's behalf, to your rescue," he says, gesturing to the still bodies of the men who were guarding the door. "Agent Lang will explain you everything, but now we have to move. We don't have much time before someone notices I've sneaked in here. Shall we go?"

If it wasn't for the Phantom's message, Blackquill may have decided to follow him. He wouldn't have trusted him much, of course, but the fact he subdued the security guards to let him and Justice out would have seemed enough of a reason to follow him for time being; better than simply staying there.

_He's a spy as well; YggdraCorp hired him to find me_.

Even if the Phantom lied, Blackquill knows for a fact that Lang never knew this man, either. He can't be here on the Interpol's behalf as he claims. "... I see," he finally says.

"We need to find Athena," Justice speaks up, his gaze moving from Blackquill to Outis. Even though he knows this man is not to be trusted, it's obvious Athena's well-being is his very first concern. Blackquill can understand that; finding her is what he wants the most right now. Hopefully, once subdued Outis may tell them where she is... whether he wants to or not. "She can't be far! They must have locked her somewhere!"

Outis smiles. "Don't you worry. Miss Cykes is safe and sound, and already in the Interpol's care. She's worried sick about you. Please, do follow me."

While his blood boils at the bold-faced lie, Blackquill manages to keep calm. "Very well. Do lead the way."

And he does turn to walk out, sure enough, because he thinks they'll follow; he doesn't know that they _know_, and thus he has no reason to believe otherwise. Not that it will last.

He moves quickly, before Outis has the time to take another step. The man doesn't even gasp when Blackquill reaches to latch an arm around his neck, his other hand grabbing Outis' left wrist to twist his hand behind his back. He hisses when his hand his pinned between his shoulder blades, but that's it. "Enough with the masquerade, Outis," Blackquill hisses. After a moment of silence, Outis lets out a laugh.

"Hah! You got me, Prosecutor. You're just as bright as they say. Do tell, what gave me away? How did you learn my name?"

"Tch. That's hardly important. What matters is what you're going to tell me now," Blackquill says darkly, twisting his arm a little harder behind his back. "Where _is_ she?"

Outis ignores his question. "Say, was it good old Robb who told you?" he asks, and Blackquill's moment of hesitation is apparently all he needs to understand. "Ah, so it _was_ him. Did he try to warn you? He couldn't save his friend, so now he hopes he can save you? How pitiful. Looks like he has yet to realize he's done playing the role of that foolish detective quite a while ba-"

"Silence!" Blackquill snaps, twisting his arm even harder. A little more strength and he may just twist it out of its socket, but – again – a soft hiss is all the reaction Outis gives.

"Answer us!" Justice snaps, his hands balled into tight fists. "Where is she? _Where is Athena?_"

"Heh. How would I know? You should ask your phantom. He's the one who took her."

That causes Justice to recoil. "The Phantom...?"

"Yes. Or Harrison Fire, as you prefer. Shame you couldn't tell it was him; he'd be in your clutches now. But not to worry – you'll face him again soon, I promise you."

"What are you-?" Blackquill starts, but he has no time to say more. The next instant two different noises reach his ears: Justice's warning cry and the sound of a blade springing out of a handle. And then there is the sudden pain in his thigh, and next thing he knows is that Outis is free from his grasp. He tries to regain his balance despite the pain in his leg, but Outis is faster: he dodges Justice's attempt at restraining him himself and turns to Blackquill with something in his hand, something that crackles with electricity.

_Jolts of Justice_, he thinks confusedly one moment before the object is shoved against his chest. The jolt is so powerful it throws him on the ground, his vision darkening before he even hits it. For a moment he's still aware of a struggle going on, he hears Justice's cry; then nothingness claims him, and he hears nothing more.

* * *

"Very well, men, we've heard enough!"

Lang's sudden bark caused most of his men to recoil, but it lasts only a moment; the next instant they're all stranding, ready to move. Lang smirks and pulls out his own gun. "Lang Zi says: let your enemies give you the rope to hang them. These bastards have enough for us to hang them from the moon. Everyone with me – time for a roundup. Let none escape least you wish me to chew you up and spit you back out," he barks.

He's rarely been more satisfied to order a roundup: now that he has a clear enough idea of what it is these people have created and experimented on humans, he feels far more disgusted than he believed was possible.

He's going to quite enjoy throwing each and every of them in jail.

* * *

As much as he doesn't mind unexpected circumstances – as far as he's concerned, it's all good exercise; even a child can stick to a plan if everything goes as it should – Outis has to admit that _this_ is quite a troublesome surprise. He had planned to take Blackquill somewhere more secluded before he subdued him, but circumstances forced him to knock him out in the worst possible place.

Had he had more time, he _could_ have dragged him away... but time's up. By fighting him, Blackquill has made him waste a crucial amount of time. Now the Interpol is coming: he can hear them coming up the stairs and the security guard uselessly yelling that there's a private event going on. There is no way for him to drag Blackquill's unconscious body away from there without being caught; he's right halfway between the stairs and the hallway leading up to the casino they're heading to. It seems he can no longer use Blackquill as a hostage, after all.

Pity, he thinks... but, then again, the Phantom has graciously provided him with an alternative. A _very_ good one.

After one last look at Blackquill and Justice's unconscious forms, Outis turns to run to the hallway on the other side of the stairs. Since the Interpol will be heading for the casino, he'll have all the time he needs to retrieve the guest in Harrison Fire's cabin and take her _just_ where he needs his bait to be.

Good thing he thought of getting himself a universal key for every door in the ship before boarding.

* * *

"We've reached five-hundred millions! Now, who- oh, raised hand over there!"

The Phantom isn't paying much attention to the auction as it progresses. There isn't more information he could gain aside from knowing who's going to get the formula, and that's something he'll know at the very end; no need to listen to all offers. Besides, he has far more important things to think of. Namely, how to keep Blackquill from falling in Outis' hands.

As much as he itches to turn and see where Outis is, if he's still in the room, he knows he cannot. He's supposed to be entirely focused on the auction, and someone might wonder if he began looking around. Besides, if he turns and Outis isn't there, what is there he could do? He can't get up and leave without raising suspicion.

In the brief conversation they managed to have in the restroom before he had to return to the casino, the Yatagarasu had offered to go 'save his ex's butt', as she put it, while the auction went on. Tempting as the offer was, he had decided against it: an attempt at escaping could result in Blackquill being shot, after all. At the moment he is safer in there... or so he hopes. Perhaps, as soon as the auction is over with, they both might-

There is a sudden bang, the room's door suddenly thrown open. The Phantom turns to see several men running in, all of them holding up guns. He can recognize Agent Lang among them, his lips pulled back as though he's snarling. "Freeze! You're all under arrest!"

Obviously enough, no one freezes: the next moment it's pure chaos, everyone getting up and several people reaching for their own guns. Before anyone can shoot there is a clang, the grate that covered the air duct falling on the floor and narrowly missing a buyer.

"Earring!" he hears a well-known voice shouting before something is thrown below through the hole. The Phantom realizes what it is just on time and shuts his eyes, shielding them with one arm for good measure. The resulting flash is so bright he'd swear he can almost see it even though his eyelids, and then there are several cries at once. When the Phantom opens his eyes everyone in the room is either holding their hands on their eyes or trying and failing to keep them open.

He's the only one who can _see_ right now, and that's his chance to get away... but the door is out of question, for he can hear more people coming. To get out of there, his only way to go is up – and the Yatagarasu seems to have come to the same conclusion.

"Move it!" she yells again, and the Phantom wastes no time: he runs right beneath the opening, shoving several people aside, and lifts his left arm. The grappling hook shoots out of his watch, and within an instant he's brought up, his hands grasping the edge of the opening.

The Yatagarasu reaches up grab him under the shoulders and pulls him inside the duct; while it's something he could have done by himself, this is quicker and he's not up to complain.

"Hah! This was fun, wasn't it? Pity I don't get to say hi to Lang," she says with a wide grin.

The Phantom ignores the remark. "We need to get on another deck," he says, tearing Harrison Fire's face off to show another mask beneath – that of a rather unremarkable man in his late fifties. The Yatagarasu does the same; her own mask is that of a woman with brown hair and rather droopy eyes. Neither face is designed to catch the eye.

"Sure. I know the way. Let's get going before those guy start seeing again."

While he's observed the ship's outline well enough to have a general idea of it, the Yatagarasu is the one who took more time to study it. He follows, faintly wondering at what point in their cooperation it has started to feel natural to him – simply entrusting his life to her judgment and skills. She has done the same with him as well, though, and it has worked so far; there is no reason to think it won't work this time.

"So, I guess Blackquill and the kids must be safe now? With Interpol stepping in and all," she says quietly as they keep moving through the air ducts. "They have probably found them. They were right on the way, after all."

"That's what I hope," the Phantom replied, as though he doesn't feel quite as certain as he'd like. He couldn't see Outis anywhere when the Interpol burst inside and interrupted the auction; what if he got to Blackquill first...? "I suppose we'll know shortly. No point in wondering now," he hears himself saying.

"True," she concedes, and gives a brief chortle. "I doubt some of those gentlemen will go down without a fight. Lang had better not get killed, either. I kinda like it how he's still burning to capture me. It's kind of nice knowing that there's someone who won't stop looking for you, isn't it?"

The Phantom can say nothing to that. As much as he dreads the thought Blackquill may get himself killed to pursue him now, he remembers clearly how the first thing that struck him about the prosecutor was the absolute determination to find him. He had even given him a name of sort, one he had made his own as well. Not even just a phantom – _Simon Blackquill's _phantom.

It was the closest thing to an identity he had had since he could remember, and Blackquill's obsession with him was almost a proof of his own existence. That was likely what had first prompted him to trying to keep Blackquill's execution from happening, the reason why once caught it was Blackquill's hatred he relied on – because you cannot hate what doesn't _exist_.

But now it's all so different; now the thought of Blackquill's hatred cuts like a knife, and he dreads nothing more than being chased yet again by him. His resolve to turn himself over hasn't changed... although now he finds himself wondering what would the Yatagarasu think of it, if it would bother her at all. Perhap it would, if there's any truth to what she said the night before they boarded.

_I'd miss you if you died – so don't get yourself killed on that ship, you hear?_

"Hey, what's _this_?"

Her voice, along with the fact she suddenly stopped in front of him and forced him to stop as well, causes him to snap out of his thoughts.

"What is it?" he asks. It's the first time she's stopped, having led him through several turns and two long slides down with no hint of hesitation. They're not lost, are they?

"This," is all she says, and he realizes she's using her pen-flashlight to examine something right in front of her. But her answer isn't telling him much, since her own body keeps him from seeing what it is. The ducts are large enough for a grown man to crawl in it, but not for two people to be side to side.

"It's like some sort of cube," she says. "All metal. I think its sides can come off, but there are some clasps keeping it shut..."

… _Wait._

"Let me see that," the Phantom says, holding up his arm. "Pass it behind. Careful not to drop it. If it's what I think it _may_ be, opening it is just about the last thing you want to do."

"Alright. Here, catch... oops! I think it fell!"

"It did not. I would have felt a clang if it did."

"Aw, you didn't believe that for one moment?"

"Shut up and hand over that thing."

"Aww, now you're hurting my delicate feel-"

"_Chrysalis_!"

She slaps a hand over her mouth to keep herself from laughing, and a honk leaves her though her nose. "Pfft! Using my name now? How sweet of you, Robert," she says with something worryingly close to a giggle. Still, she does hand the cube over to him... and it turns out to be precisely what he feared it might be.

"Erysichthon," he mutters. "I've seen these at the demonstration. This is where the toxin is stored in its gaseous form. It can be released by remote from a long distance."

That definitely _doesn't_ make her laugh. "Wait, what? Why the hell would they that stuff in the ship's air ducts?"

"Is that a rhetorical question?" the Phantom says flatly. There can only be one reason why a deadly gas was be put in the air ducts – to make it spread through the greatest part of the ship as quickly as possible. There may be more around, placed strategically to allow the toxin to spread more easily... and thus to bring up the body count.

"Yeah, okay, dumb question. But why? This stuff could kill everyone on the ship. Even if they have the antidote, this doesn't sound like something YggdraCorp would pull," the Yatagarasu mutters, and the Phantom has to agree.

"No, it does not. Besides, I'm rather certain Harrison Fire would know if this was part of their plans," he says, and holds the cube carefully under his arm. As far as he knows opening it without the remote isn't easy, but it's best not to take risks. "Let's keep going. We'll think this over once we're out of here."

It doesn't take much for them to reach their destination: a restroom on the fourth deck. "I broke the sink last night, so it's out of order. Wanted to make sure no one would be in today," she explains as she climbs down and reaches up to take the cube. The Phantom hands it over to her just enough time for him to climb down as well and put the grate back in place.

"Okay, so they put the virus inside the ship's ventilation ducts. And there may be more around. That's _bad_ news. They could be activated any time, and it's not like we can keep it from happening unless we get our hands on the remote."

"Or we find them all and put them inside a sealed room. Once out in its gas form, the toxin is only active for a few days," the Phantom says. "If they're all in the ventilation ducts, we may have a chance. You know this ship's outline perfectly by no-"

A sudden burst of static causes him to trail off, and the next moment Outis' voice is resounding through the room... and through the whole ship, most likely. He must have gotten through the captain's communication system.

"My apologies for the interruption of... well, whatever activity you've been enjoying until now. If you're here on vacation or you're part of the crew, feel free to ignore me – this isn't about you. Do have your fun. Now, old friend... I suppose calling you Harrison will do for now, although I'm certain you've already shed that mask. This is for you – listen well and listen close, my boy. If you don't, I'm afraid the friend of yours currently under my care may have an unpleasant accident. Sad accidents happen a lot in our field, as you already know."

The Phantom goes very still, his gaze fixed on the wall ahead. He has Blackquill? But how? Did he get him before the Interpol reached the deck? What is he planning to do now?

He doesn't have to wonder for long.

"I want you to come to me, and then we'll have a chat. You'll come _alone_, obviously. Bring anyone with you, and... well. I'm certain you can imagine what will happen. You'll find me easily, I trust – there is a name that by now should tell you something. You have one hour to show up. Which reminds me I have a message for the Interpol as well. Agent Lang, by now I'm certain you have an idea of what the auction was about. You must have a rather good idea of what they were up to sell... and I'm certain you will know from any of the gentlemen you have in your custody just how powerful their little toy is."

Taken as he is by what he's hearing, the Phantom hears the Yatagarasu releasing a long breath beside him. He can understand why: Outis' words are confirming that Lang is alive and well, and wasn't shot during the roundup.

"I have put seven containers with that _product_ in several places in the ship. I'll give you a bit of help – they're all in the ship's ventilation system. I have a switch to release the gas they hold; I'll press the button if you try to track me down or to come between me and the one you call Phantom. Not that I think you'll waste time on it, because the containers will open on their own in exactly... oh, wait, the countdown started two minutes ago. My bad, I didn't do that on purpose. Ah well. Let's say you have little less than an hour before they open. Not enough to evacuate all passengers on the lifeboats, by the way. So I suppose you should focus on looking for them rather than for me – priorities, right? That's about all. I wish you luck. See you soon, _Harrison_."

There is a clicking noise, and then nothing more: everything is silent again.

"... Well," the Yatagarasu speaks, "_now_ we know who put that in the duct. What are you doing?"

The Phantom doesn't reply right away: he keeps staring at his watch, looking for the passengers list. A name that should tell him something, he thinks – and he cannot be that of Ulysses Outis, because he wouldn't pick a name the Interpol may recognize. There is another name he went by once, though, when training him. Umber, he recalls. Only Umber, a name the Interpol wouldn't know about. He enters the name and searches... and, sure enough, he gets a result.

_Umber Dupont_.

That's it, he thinks, that's got to be it: he can remember that Dupont was the surname he used for himself when he was recruited. It cannot possibly be a coincidence. Outis must have chosen that name to make sure he'd recognize it. He wants him to find the cabin, after all.

"I know what cabin he's in," the Phantom says, his voice flat. "Second deck. I'll be going. You keep your head down."

She looks at him as though he's starting to grow a set of antlers and a pair of wings. "Are you kidding? You can't just go alone!"

The Phantom scoffs. "I must. I won't be risking Blackquill's life. I don't get a choice."

"He'll try to kill you."

"Most likely."

"He may kill Blackquill as well anyway."

"... I know. But if Otis realizes I'm trying to trick him, he'll be dead for sure."

She groans. "Do you have any idea how just plain irrational that is?"

That causes the Phantom to give a faint smile. "Human beings are like that, I suppose. You lie low for a while and-" he trails off when she throws back her head and laughs.

"Pwwfff- HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Oh my, don't- HAHAH! You're hilarious!" she laughs, slapping his back. "Lie low? With Lang on board and a deadly toxin hidden in the air ducts? Forget about it! I'll be helping those suckers to look for the cubes. The idiot will die trying to find them otherwise, and I _do_ know this ship's outline better than whoever _built_ it."

For a moment the Phantom almost tries to talk her out of it, but he doesn't. With what he's planning to do, it's not like he can tell her to sit back and watch, either. Besides, she's a skilled spy. She may be able to make it. "Lang isn't likely to accept your help. And if he does, he certainly won't let you go afterward."

The Yatagarasu stares at him for a moment, then she smiles. Still, it's not one of her usual smile. This one is different, almost somber. "Neither will Blackquill let go of you. Don't worry, I'm a grown up. I'll be able to handle this. You had better be able to handle Outis," she says, and steps past him to the door. "Hey, Robert."

"Yes?"

"Be careful."

"... I will. You too."

She nods without turning and the next moment she's out, the door closing silently behind her.

* * *

"I'm truly sorry, you know. It wasn't _you_ I meant to use. But then again it fits, doesn't it? You helped break him, so you have your share of blame, and your loss just might be worse than death for Blackquill. You should have thought twice before you used that gift of yours on him, young lady. You really should have."

Athena tries to move, tries to speak, but she can't. The effects of whatever tranquilizer was used on her are wearing off slowly, just enough for her to understand the words she's hearing... and to know she's not in a good predicament at all. She's still bound, this man is definitely _not_ LaRoche, and something is strapped over her nose and mouth – a plastic mask connected to a nebulizer. What it's for, though, she cannot tell.

"I believe you've breathed in enough of it," the man says almost gently somewhere above her. The nebulizer is turned off, the plastic mask removed from her face. "Wouldn't want it to be all over before he's even here. Oh, but he'll be here soon, I'm sure. You just wait."

Athena has no idea who they're waiting for, but even with her mind still partly clouded she can recognize a trap... and she can tell she's supposed to be bait. Someone will come here for her, someone will try to help her – and may die in doing so.

But it cannot happen, she can't let it happen. She promised herself long ago that never again she'd let someone put their life on the line for her. Never. Again.

Athena shuts her eyes tightly and starts trying to undo the knots that bind her arms behind her back.


	15. Confrontation

_A/N: blood and death ahead. C'mon, you knew this was coming._  
_Thank you so much to Keyanna __for proofreading!_

* * *

"The list of all passengers. Now."

"Prosecutor Blackquill, you've been hurt. You should get some rest and-"

"NOW!"

Blackquill's cry causes both the nurse and several of the Interpol agents in the infirmary – those who were wounded lightly enough in the roundup not to have been robbed of consciousness, at least – to wince. He pays no mind to any of them: all that matters is that they give him that accursed list.

Athena is still missing, and he fears more than anything that Outis has her, that it's her he's using as bait for the Phantom. With Justice still out cold and Lang and his remaining men out looking for the toxin that madman has left around the ship – he has few men, and the lives of thousands have priority over one single life: Blackquill can understand that – finding her as soon as possible falls to him and him alone.

If the situation wasn't this desperate, he might find it fitting.

_You'll find me easily, I trust – there is a name that by now should tell you something_.

Blackquill has no clue what name that lunatic may be referring to, but he thinks he may be the only one, aside from the Phantom, who might guess. He's the one who knows the most of the Phantom's past, and perhaps he'll know what name and thus what cabin he's looking for when it's before his eyes. He must.

It's his only hope.

* * *

The deck is eerily empty as the Phantom walks down the hallway that, he knows, leads to the cabin where Outis-  
_Umber_  
-is waiting. The Interpol broadcast a message to tell all passengers to move out to the parts of the decks in the open air, so that's likely the reason why. That means it's unlikely they'll be interrupted; certainly what Outis aimed for, the Phantom thinks as he pauses before a certain cabin. Cabin 215, the one reserved by one Umber Dupont. Allowing himself no hesitation, the Phantom reaches to knock twice.

Outis' voice reaches him a moment later. "Oh, here you are! Didn't take you long. I'm impressed. Come in, the door is open. Close it behind you, please," he adds, sounding like the Phantom just showed up for a chat before a cup of tea. There is no choice but to do as he says.

When he steps in Outis is standing at the far end of the cabin, holding a gun in each hand. Only one of them looks like a proper gun, though; the other is different, made of transparent plastic. Outis smiles at him as though genuinely pleased to see him there. "Here you are. Good. Calling you _Mr. Fire_ was getting tiresome."

_Where is Blackquill?_, is all the Phantom wants to ask, but he refrains from doing so. He can't let him see how desperate he is just yet. Outis already knows Blackquill is a weak spot; no point in letting him know just how much. "How could you tell?"

A chuckle. "The caviar I offered. You were the only one not to eat it; you only pretended to. You've always been allergic to it; a minor flaw and, I believed, the _only_. Boy, was I wrong. Take off that mask, will you?"

The Phantom scoffs. "It will make no real difference," he says as he slips the mask he's wearing off and lets it fall on the ground. He takes off the contact lenses as well; his eyes are the only thing left Outis may recognize. "My face is gone."

For a moment Outis looks somewhat disappointed, but it's so quick he almost can almost believe he imagined it. "Plastic surgery. I see. Was _that_ your price for selling out the organization to the police?"

"No. My memories were. My past, my self, my _everything_. Am I supposed to apologize? They sent that sniper to end me."

Outis sighs almost mournfully. "Because you let yourself be caught. You let them _break_ you, crack you open and take away what made you the spy you were."

"I let them fix me. They made me _someone_."

"They made you a flawed human being. That's why you're here. My old pupil wouldn't have put his life on the line for someone else. You wouldn't have let emotions rule you. You were perfect. No emotions, no mindless impulses. Logic and control. Don't you remember what I told you?"

The Phantom looks back at him blankly. "No. I had forgotten you even existed until today."

Outis' mournful expression changes into fury for just one instant before turning into another smile. "Well. I can't pretend I'm not hurt. And, since I don't appreciate being hurt, I believe it's time for me to return the favor. Come closer, past the bathroom, and take a look around the corner."

The Phantom does as he's told, keeping an eye on the guns he's holding. Once close enough, he may try to snatch at least one with his grappling hook... but first, he needs to make sure Blackquill is all right. He pauses just past the corner, turns to his right – and then he freezes.

It isn't Blackquill on the ground – it's _Cykes_. She's still tied up, as he left her, but he can tell something is wrong: she's shaking, eyes glassy, and her skin is glossy with perspiration. "What have you-"

_Clack_.

The Phantom lets out a surprised cry when something hits his left arm and, immediately afterward, his left leg. There is stinging pain, certainly not from bullets. He reaches to tear something out of his arm – a dart. Realization sinks in the same moment his leg gives out from beneath him and causes him to fall to his knees, the same moment Outis speaks again.

"I had her breathing in some of that lovely toxin. She's starting to feel the effects, I'd say. Numbness and some prickling, for now, but it won't be too long before it turns into pain. I hear that rotting alive is quite painful," he says, and puts away the plastic gun, keeping the real one pointed at him. "I believe you can guess what I just injected into you as well. Except that it's the fast formula, directly in your bloodstream. It's so much quicker. Pain should be on the way as we speak."

The Phantom snarls and tries to rise, but he can't: his leg is completely numb and his arm feels weak, _tingling_. The attempt only causes him to slump on the ground, and he has to lift himself on his right elbow to look up at Outis – who's still smiling, damn him, like they're having a pleasant chat over some tea. "What... what do you want?" he manages, some actual fear settling in his chest. He's been injected with a deadly toxin, he cannot stand and his left arm – his _watch_ arm – is now useless.

Outis' smile disappears. Now he looks very serious and, again, almost mournful. "I'm punishing the dog who bit its master's hand. I'm putting down a horse with a broken leg. It won't take too long, trust me. It will hurt, but it will be over soo—" he trails off when the Phantom cries out in pain. "Oh. Starting already, isn't it?"

It is, damn him, it _is_. The tingling in his arm and leg is turning into something else, into a burning pain unlike anything he's ever felt before. It's like he stuck his limbs into a fire and can't pull them out of it; all he can do is clench his teeth to keep himself from screaming and writhe in agony, his arm and leg shaking uncontrollably. Each involuntary twitch and movement sends shard of pain up his spine to his brain, or so it feels. He's no stranger to pain, but nothing in his life – absolutely _nothing_ – has ever prepared him for a pain like this. He finds himself wishing he could pass out, but he receives no such mercy.

"Give it a bit, and it will spread to the rest of your body," Outis is saying, watching him with odd fascination. "You should be able to _see_ your limbs rotting soon. Unless, of course, you use the antidote. I just happen to have some. Here," he says, and lets something clatter on the ground – a syringe filled with a blue-colored liquid. The antidote – the Phantom has seen it as Harrison Fire, and he can recognize it. He doesn't know why Outis would give him a chance to save himself, but he doesn't care. With what little strength he has left, he crawls forward and takes the syringe in his right arm. He lifts it so he can stick the needle into his other arm-

"That's precisely one dose," Outis speaks above him. "Any less than that won't be effective. Now it's up to you. Who's going to live and who's going to die?"

Through the haze of pain, realization sinks in like a spear of ice through his brain. The Phantom turns, and his gaze falls on Cykes; for a moment, he forgot all about her presence. Her eyes are now wide open and fixed on him; his cries of pain must have startled her into awareness. She tries to speak, but the gag in her mouth makes it impossible. She's struggling with her bounds, her skin an ashen gray.

_I_ _had her breathing in some of that lovely toxin. She's starting to feel the effects, I'd say._

He has to choose, the Phantom knows – this lunatic is making him _choose_. His life, or that of Athena Cykes.

Athena Cykes, whose mother he murdered. Athena Cykes, whose life Blackquill was ready to protect with his own. Athena Cykes, who was willing to help the Phantom find his identity after he was imprisoned, who helped making him _someone_, who still believed his life was worth defending until the very end, who _wept_ for him when his sentence was passed... who wouldn't be involved in this madness if it wasn't for him.

Athena Cykes, whose death would leave such a gaping hole in Blackquill's heart that the Phantom doubts he'd survive it. He was ready to die to save her, he thinks, and her death would kill him. He knows it would.

_You can't let her die to save yourself. There would be no justice in it._

The voice echoing in the back of the Phantom's mind isn't his own, but it is one he knows well – one he's used for a whole year, longer than any other he can remember. It's the voice of Bobby Fulbright, the insufferable fool too blinded by his precious _justice_ to even see his death approaching, the idealistic tool who kept believing in Prosecutor Blackquill until the very end... or he would have, if he'd lived long enough to know him. Bobby Fulbright, the one and only mask he ever found himself unwilling to shed.

_You know there is only one just thing to do, right?_

… Yes. He knows. Fulbright would know, and so does LaRoche.

There is another moment of stillness and silence and agonizing pain, then he lowers the syringe. There is no conscious decision, as far as he can tell: he just knows that if he doesn't act now he may be unable to do what needs to be done, that he may be too weak, too scared of death. He acts fast, allowing himself no time to think, filling his mind with nothing. He doesn't waste time trying to stand, and just puts all the effort he can in crawling closer to her, the syringe held tightly in his right hand.

_It's not too far. You can do it. Keep going. You're almost there._

Cykes guesses his intention, she must, and she tries to crawl away from him, frantically shaking her head and crying out through the gag. Even now she puts other people's lives before herself – even _his_. But her hands and ankles are tied, and she can't put up much of a resistance.

"I'm sorry," is all the Phantom manages to rasp, sinking the needle in her arm and injecting the antidote. With a shudder, Cykes closes her eyes and stops struggling; some tears escape from beneath her eyelids as the Phantom lets the syringe fall and slumps on the floor. She's safe, at least from the toxin, and now for him there is nothing but pain before the end. Outis' voice sounds so very far away when it reaches him.

"You truly have gone soft. Such a shame. And to think I was so proud of your skills. My masterpiece," Outis says, something akin to melancholy showing in his voice. "Except that you're not without fear. You never truly were. You feared death so much you ran from it to become someone else's lapdog. A shame I couldn't see the flaws before it was too late. It seems I failed you just as much as you failed me. I should have known. I should have remembered how frightened you were the night we first met."

Despite the pain that engulfs everything, something about the statement causes the Phantom to frown. He remembers, if vaguely, the first time he and this man who now calls himself Outis met. It was the day he had been recruited for the organization, the day he had come back to the apartment he lived in at the time to find him and three other armed men inside. But he had felt no fear, he was certain of it, nor he had shown any.

"I was... not... frightened."

Outis laughs. "Oh, but you _were_. You tried to run, but couldn't go far. You were fast, but not fast enough."

The Phantom clenches his teeth against the pain, his mind reeling. "You're... wrong. I never... tried to run."

"Not when we met again, no. Your fear seemed to be gone, but it was an illusion. Shame I fell for it."

"Met... again?" the Phantom repeats, not comprehending. What is he talking about? _That_ was the first time they met, when he returned to his apartment to find him there with his offer. "What...?" he starts, only to trail off as Outis smiles down at him again – a disturbing, almost fatherly smile.

But that smile is nothing compared to the words that leave him a moment later.

"Well, well. Here's our little mouse."

* * *

"_Well, well. Here's our little mouse," a voice he doesn't know speaks above him, and one of the men crouches beside him to look at him more closely. His face looks fuzzy, unrecognizable to him. Robb tries to speak, tries to ask what happened, but words fail him and he has to lean his head back. He closes his eyes, the light coming from above him too strong to bear._

"_It was about time. How did he and that other little shit get in? Who the hell is he?"_

_Robb forces himself to open his eyes again and blinks, and this time he can see with some more clarity the face of the man above him; just enough to be able to tell he has brown hair and a mustache, and that his lips are curling in a cold, cold smile. There is a low keening noise, and at first Robb fails to even realize it's coming from him. His ears are buzzing and his throat feels dry as a desert._

_The man brings something up, holding it before Robb's face, and it's with a sudden flash of clarity that Robb can tell it's a gun – a gun aimed straight at his head. Its mouth looks impossibly big, and impossibly black. There is a loud clicking noise as the man cocks the gun._

No_, Robb wants to say, _I don't want to die_ – but as he open his mouth nothing leaves him but another weak, wordless noise. His body feels numb and his head heavy, and he can't manage to even move: he can only lie there and stare at the gun aimed at his head, Seymour's last words echoing through the static in his mind._

Robb! Please, come back! Help me, don't leave me here! Robb! NO! Please, don't! Robert! ROB-

"_No one," the man sneers, and it's the last thing Robb hears before yet another shot rings out – the last thing he hears before nothingness claims him._

* * *

No. No, it can't be. It can't _be_.

_Well, well. Here's our little mouse._

No!

_Robb! Please, come back! Help me, don't leave me here! Robb! NO! Please, don't! Robert! ROB- _

"NO!"

The Phantom's scream causes Outis' smile to widen. "Oh, I see you remember now. Now you see what I mean when I say I _created_ you, don't you? Of course, I meant to kill you... but you were harder to kill than your friend was, apparently. A bullet to the head was enough for him. A mercy killing, I'd say. He was in so much pain while he begged me not to kill him... and you to come back for him. But you didn't, remember? You _ran_. But not fast enou-"

The Phantom screams again, a cry of pain and anger and grief, but it's not that that causes Outis to trail off; what leaves him speechless is the fact that, with an inhuman effort, the Phantom _stands_. Everything is blazing with pain, his leg can barely support him, his arm is nothing but a fiery mass of agony – but none of it matters. Not the pain, not his life, nothing. All that matters is that Outis is there,_ Seymour's murderer is there_, and he will kill him with his own hands before he dies. He can't welcome death until he's seen him breathe his last breath, until he can face Seymour and tell him that, at the very least, he's been avenged.

The Phantom shuts down emotions, shuts down the pain, and forces his body to _work_.

He takes a step. Then another.

* * *

"Prosecutor Blackquill, where are you going? You're wounded! You should sit down and- oof!"

The doctor gasps as his back hits the wall, and Blackquill nails him in place with a glare. "Stay out of my way, lest you wish me to cut you down," Blackquill snarls. As far as he's concerned, he has no reason to stay in the infirmary. His leg is hurting, causing him to limp, but he's perfectly capable of walking – especially now that he knows where to find Outis... and Athena, he hopes.

Of all names on the long list, one has caught his eyes – more specifically, one surname. Dupont.

_The boy, who had also a wound on his left leg and a broken arm, was not identified and is referred to with the monicker of 'Jean Dupont' in police and medical reports; their own version of 'John Doe', it appears._

Dupont – the first surname the Phantom was given after being shot, after Robert LaRoche's name was lost. It may not be a coincidence, it _cannot_ be. If it is... then he has no idea where else he could look for Athena, and hell knows how he's wasted too much time already.

"I must insist! Whatever this is, I'm certain the Interpol can handle-"

"No," Blackquill cuts him off. "They're after something else. A friend told me that the wolf who aims to hunt two rabbits at once is bound to fail; failure is not an option. I'll go alone. You make sure he recovers," he adds, turning to glance at Justice's unconscious form. The electric jolt he received must have been more severe than his own. "When he awakens, tell him I'll be back with someone we both hold dear or not at all."

* * *

"How can you- stay _back_...!"

Even as she struggles to slip her hands free from her bounds, Athena can hear, over her own labored breathing and choked back sobs, the sudden _fear_ in Outis' heart. He's still holding the gun, aiming it straight at the Phantom, but doesn't shoot yet. He can only stare, as though frozen on the spot, as the Phantom takes another step forward. And she can see why, she truly can: as he limps closer to Outis, his left arm a dead weight and the other hand opening and closing slowly, the Phantom looks more frightening than ever before – even when he loomed over her before her mother's corpse.

She has seen him wearing a blank expression more times than she can count, but this time it's different: this time there is something truly terrible beneath that blankness. His eyes seem darker and _harsh_, metal instead of ice; he has to be in horrible pain, but nothing shows except in his slowed movements. He doesn't make a sound, and even his heart is silent – the raging emotions entirely shut down, leaving behind something that's barely human, a living _doing_ rather than a living _being_.

Then he speaks again, and it's even worse. It doesn't sound like his own voice; it doesn't even sound human. It's cold, metallic, _flat_. "Beg me, Umber. _Beg me not to kill you_."

"Stay _back_!"

Athena lets out a cry, muffled by the gag, when a gunshot rings out, then another, and _another_. Her efforts to free her arms double as the Phantom finally falls on the ground, his stretched hand only an inch away from Outis' foot; he stays still where he fell, blood starting to stain the beige carpet on the floor.

He killed him, Athena thinks in panic, he just _killed_ him.

Outis draws in a deep breath, staring down at the body, and lowers his gun. "Look what he made me do," he mutters, and Athena is taken aback by the new emotion in his voice, one that was barely present at times during the whole exchange: grief. She has no idea by what logic, but part of this lunatic is actually _mourning_.

With on last yank, Athena finally manages to slip a wrist off the rope and free her hands. Her limbs still feel sort of numb and her ankles are still tied, but she pays it no mind: she reaches to get the gag off her mouth and cries out. "No! Robert! ROBERT!" she calls out, and tries to move closer to his body. Maybe he's not dead, she thinks, maybe there's still a heartbeat. She must get closer, she must listen, she must help-

Outis turns to look at her, and she finds herself facing the mouth of the gun.

"You stay put, missy. Or else I might have to-" he trails off, eyes widening in surprise, and looks back down. Athena follows his gaze to see that Phantom's bloodied hand is now grasping his ankle. He murmurs something, his voice too low to make out the words – even for her. But he's alive, she thinks, he's still _alive_.

"Robert!" she calls out, but Outis' glare is enough to silence her.

"Quiet," he snaps at her before crouching over the Phantom's body. He's lying face down, and Outis reaches to stroke his hair with surprising, sickening gentleness. "What is it, boy? What are you saying?"

The gurgle that leaves the Phantom only barely resembles human speech, but Athena can make out the words. "Hang in there, Birdbrain. I've... I've got this."

"What are you-?" Outis starts, and that's all he has time to say, the last words he'll ever utter. The Phantom moves again, twisting like a snake, and his right hand shoots up, arm moving in an arch. There is a flash of steel, then a gurgling cry and a thud as Outis falls back, holding his throat in the useless attempt to stop the massive flow of blood with his hands.

His throat, Athena thinks, still too stunned to really feel surprise or fear – he just sliced his _throat_.

As Outis writhes on the floor, the Phantom drops the knife and lets himself fall back as well, this time on his back. Gaze fixed on the ceiling, he gives the most horrible laugh Athena can recall ever hearing. It's loud enough to almost cover the sounds Outis makes as he chokes on his own blood. "Hah... Haha. HAHAHAHA! You were... you were right, Umber. You... created me. Enjoy the result_. _I'll... see you in _hell_," he snarls before his whole frame shudders and blood comes gushing out of his mouth. That's what finally makes Athena snap out of her trance-like state.

"No!" she hears herself gasping, dragging herself to the Phantom. Outis is barely moving now, clearly breathing his last, but she can't bring herself to pay attention to him. The Phantom is wounded, too, though his bloodied clothes make it hard for her to tell where the gunshot wounds are. There is one on his stomach, she can see that one, and oh God, his arm is shaking and she can see his fingers are starting to turn black.

The Phantom shudders again, and something in his heart's voice changes – the happiness fading and pain and fear settling in once more. He shudders again, coughs up some more blood and looks up at her. "Cykes," he murmurs, his voice weak, so horribly _weak_.

"No. No, no, no – please, no!" Athena chokes out, reaching to press her hands on the wound she can see to try stopping the flow of blood – but there are other wounds, and she knows that even if the blood loss doesn't kill him the toxin eventually will. And it's not fair, it's just not _fair_. She promised herself no one would ever have to save her, that no one would suffer for her sake again, but she was unable to keep that promise. She can't help him any more than she could help her mother, but somehow it's even worse, because her mother was dead already and she didn't have to watch her suffer. He's in pain, he's terrified, he's _dying_ – and there is nothing she can do but drench her hands with his blood and scream for help. "_Help! Please! Someone help_!"

The Phantom opens his eyes – those pale blue eyes that are the only thing she can recognize in this new face of his – and looks up at her. "It's... good to see you're... you're fine," he manages, and the forced smile he gives her is one of the most horrible things she can remember seeing: a pained grimace showing teeth reddened with blood. It fades soon, though. "D-don't... don't look at me like... _don't_... look at me. This face, I... this is my f-face now, this... g-gone, my own face is..." he pauses and draws in a wheezing breath. "Leave me. You... d-don't have to... stay."

Athena fights back her tears and keeps pressing down on his wound, struggling to ignore the overwhelming smell of blood, the warmth of it as it leaks through her fingers. She forces herself to smile down at him. "No way I'm leaving. You'll be fine, too! You must, I can't let you die! Not for me, not after..." her voice breaks, and her smile fades. Something warm finally slides down her face. "Please. Please, _don't_."

He shudders, chest rising and falling in a sudden spasm that for a moment she can't recognize as a sob; the sound that leaves him sounds like he's choking, and some more blood comes out of his mouth, coating his chin and neck. He screws his eyes shut against the pain, causing tears to roll down his temples, leaving trails in all that blood. "P-please, _leave_."

She _should_ leave, she knows as much. She should untie her ankles and go look for someone to help, but she can't bring herself to lave him alone; so she draws in a deep breath and screams again, as loud as she can, her throat burning with effort. "HELP! SOMEONE! I NEED HELP!"

* * *

"_HELP! SOMEONE! I NEED HELP!"_

Athena's scream reaches Blackquill's ears when he's only a few steps away from the cabin he's heading for. For one single moment he pauses, chilled to the bone, then he resumes running as fast as he can with the wound on his leg. She's alive, but her screams make him fear for her all the same: is she in danger? Is she hurt? Who is in there with her?

All questions whose answer he'll know in moments.

Ignoring the pain in his leg, Blackquill runs to the cabin's door so fast he almost hurtles past it. He slams it open and bursts inside, ready to tear into anything or anyone standing between him and Athena...

… And then he freezes, his mind refusing to elaborate what he's seeing – because it's familiar, a nightmare he's already lived through. Athena, face and hands and clothes stained with blood, kneeling next to a still body – and then more blood, blood everywhere, just like that day. Only that this time there are two bodies on the floor – Outis, he realizes, one of them is Outis, eyes glassy and throat slit – and Athena isn't giving him that vague smile, that faraway look that has haunted his dreams for years. She's weeping, and clearly scared out of her wits, but aside from that she seems unharmed.

"Simon! Please, get help! He needs _help_!" she cries out, and Blackquill finally realizes that the corpse she's kneeling over isn't a corpse at all: the man's chest rises and falls in a rattling breath just as she calls out for him, blood coming out of his mouth. He's still _alive_.

Blackquill rushes by Athena's side, and lifts the man's upper body in his arms, letting him rest his head against his chest to help him breathe without choking on his own blood. The man shivers, his breathing difficult, eyes screwed shut. "What has happened in here?" Blackquill hears himself asking, his voice not as firm as he'd like. He can see, with dawning horror, than the man's left hand is turning black, _rotting_ on him.

Athena opens her mouth to reply, but it's another voice that reaches him first. A voice he _knows_.

"Pros... prosecutor... Black... quill."

No, Blackquill thinks. No, it can't _be_.

"What did you say?" he rasps, his eyes turning back to the man, ears buzzing and mouth dry. There is nothing familiar about that face, about the dark hair, and when he reaches to touch it he can tell that it's not a mask: he's touching skin, no doubt about it. Still... "How do you...?"

The man shudders for a moment, then he draws in another breath and opens his eyes to look at him. It's all Blackquill needs to see: he _knows_ those pale blue eyes, he knows them well.

"_You_," he breathes.

"He needs help," Athena says shakily, hands still pressed on the wound on the Phantom's stomach. "He... saved my life, Simon, he _did_, and now he's losing so much blood, and... the toxin, he was poisoned – we both were, but he gave the antidote to me! He needs it too, he needs-" she trails off when LaRoche speaks again.

"I need... I need nothing," he chokes out, his eyes still on Blackquill, then he does just about the last thing Blackquill expected him to – he smiles. Even as his blood pools on the ground and his breathing grows more and more ragged, even as tears roll down his temples and leave tracks in blood, he _smiles._

Blackquill barely has the time to register that before LaRoche lifts his right hand to his face. It's sticky with blood when it touches his cheek, but Blackquill doesn't pull back. He stares down at the man lying in his arms. Athena is right: he needs help. Everything else can be discussed at a later time.

"You do. You need medical help at once," he hears himself saying.

LaRoche shakes his head, his smile not even wavering, and brushes his thumb across Blackquill's cheekbone. It's as though the pain he was in moments ago cannot reach him anymore. "You're alive. You're _safe_," he rasps, some wonder showing in his voice. "And he is _gone_. It's... It's fine. It's all that matters. Forgive me for... for leaving you behind. I was... I was a coward. I should have stayed. I should have _died_. I'm sorry, Simon. _Seymour_. I'm _sorry_."

Blackquill clenches his jaw, ignoring the dull ache in his chest. "You're raving," he says harshly, but his voice softens when he turns to Athena. "Let go of him. Untie your legs and go find help. I'll stay with him."

"I... yes. Right. Help," Athena repeats, her voice firmer. It's like she's come out of some sort of trance, and she looks a lot more like herself while quickly untying her ankles. She stands, and turns to look down at LaRoche. "You'll be fine. Just hang in there. Please," is all she says before running out of the cabin, looking for whatever help the Phantom can get on this accursed ship.

Blackquill looks away from the door she just left through when he feels LaRoche pressing his face against his chest. A shudder shakes his whole frame, along with a choked-back sob. Whatever respite relief gave him from pain, it seems to be gone. Blackquill can feel warmth and wetness through the fabric; how much of it is blood and how much is tears, though, he cannot tell. He's murmuring something, his voice too low and broken for Blackquill to make out any words.

"_Silence_. Cease your jabbering at once, LaRoche. Spare your strength. You'll be needing it when it's time for you to give me some answers. Did you really think that I'd ever let you go?"

LaRoche looks up at him, but when his lips move again it isn't in another effort to speak: he gives the weakest of smiles and manages to lift his head just enough to brush bloodied lips against Blackquill's jaw for a moment. Blackquill opens his mouth to speak, to say something, but words die in his throat as LaRoche's eyes close and his head rolls back to rest against his chest, his whole body now still and limp in his arms.

* * *

_A/N: I'll be hiding in my bunker for a while. _


	16. Scavenger Hunt

_A/N: again, what was supposed to be a single chapter turned out way too long and I made two chapters out of it. I'll post the next one next weekend!  
Thanks a lot to Keyanna for proofreading!_

* * *

"Tell the passengers to get out into the open air, all of them! Tear the microphone out of the captain's cold dead hands if you must, but get everyone outside! None of them must stay inside one minute longer. Start getting them on the life boats," Lang barks, feeling as though his heart is about to burst out of his throat and into his mouth. There are thousands of lives at risk and no time to lose. There is no way in hell they can get everyone off the damn boat within the hour, but it's no reason not to get started. "What are you still standing there for? Lang Zi says just go already!"

"Yes, Shifu!"

Lang stares at his man's retreating back as he runs up the stairs as quickly as he can, wounded arm hanging from his neck in a makeshift sling. He's not the only one among Lang's chosen ten to be wounded: four more were and, although none of them was fatally injured, at least two are going to need surgery to get the bullets out. There were armed people inside the casino, of course, and none of them willing to let themselves be arrested without putting up a fight. Lang and his men had anticipated as much, obviously. What they had _not_ anticipated was a goddamn flash bomb going off almost as soon as they burst in, blinding them just as much as it blinded their targets.

There were moments of utter chaos as none of them could see, and someone had begun shooting blindly, hitting both his men and people who were attending the auction. A few people were killed, including YggdraCorp's CEO: a bullet through her head did her in before she could answer any of their questions, much to Lang's chagrin.

While they had been able to subdue and arrest the people in the casino eventually, Lang has the uncomfortable certainty that at least some of them managed to get past them and through the door while everyone was still blinded. Several men are missing, including YggdraCorp's chief of staff and what he assumes are several members of the security team… who, most worrying of all, are likely armed.

Of course, the day simply had to get worse: on top of half his men being wounded, a few armed thugs loose on the ship and Athena Cykes still unaccounted for, now there is a madman who apparently has a hostage – likely Cykes herself – and is threatening to release a deadly toxin in a cruise ship with thousands of people on it, challenging him to a goddamn scavenger hunt to find all the containers within one hour.

If he survives the ordeal, Lang is definitely going to allow himself the luxury of a long vacation – well away from anything resembling a cruise ship, or even a paddleboat. The very top of a high mountain is a far more tempting option at the moment. He's always wanted to visit the Himalayan region, after all.

With a sigh, Lang turns to another of his men. "Are they still unconscious?" he asks. They found Prosecutor Blackquill and some other kid whose name Lang can't remember lying unconscious in the hallway leading to the casino; neither had obvious injures, aside from what looked like a knife wound on Blackquill's thigh.

"Yes, Shifu," the agent replies. "They're in the infirmary right now. A doctor and a nurse are looking after them and our wounded men. Should we have them brought outside as well?"

Lang shakes his head. "Not yet. Let the doctor fuss over them a bit longer. Tell him to get them out if they haven't awakened in the next forty minutes. Now come with me, all of you! We need a map of this accursed ship's ventilation system and-

"Aww, Lang, relax. Don't burst a blood vessel."

The feminine voice that reaches his ears is enough to make words die in Lang's throat. He knows that voice, he knows it well – and so do his agents, who are now staring at something over his shoulder with wide eyes and mouths hanging open.

"… Hey, boys. It's been a while. You _still_ look like a bunch of dumb mutts."

"YOU!"

The snarl erupts from Lang's throat before he's even done turning around to face her... and then he falls silent, eyes fixed on her and his own mouth hanging open. The woman standing before him looks nothing like Shih-na did, but that's no surprise: he knows by now what a master of disguise she is. What causes him to fall silent and gape is the object she's holding in her hand like a trophy: a cube-shaped metal object with a timer on one side. Is that…?

"Pwwwhhhfff – HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Your- hahaha! Your _face_! Oh man, this is not fair! Stop – _heheheee!_ – stop gaping like _that_!" she wheezes, that dreadful laughter having apparently robbed her of her breath. Something Lang would very much like to do – possibly with his hands around her _neck_. "It's – heh! – it's good to see you again, Lang. So good I may even stop being mad at you."

"_Mad_ at me?" Lang repeats, incredulity overriding both surprise and fury for a moment. What the...?

She grins at him. She rarely ever smiled as Shih-na, but once unmasked she seemed to grin all the time, her infuriating laugh ringing out at the most inappropriate times. "Of all mug shots you had of me, did you have to pick that one for the database? _Seriously_. I look terrible in it."

Lang's left eye twitches. "Who granted you access to our _database_?"

Her grin widens. "You did. I used your account to get in."

That's just about the last straw. If it wasn't for the fact she's holding a cube that looks suspiciously like what the container of a deadly toxin might look like, Lang would be launching himself at her. "How _dare_ you!"

Far from impressed, she shrugs. "Hey, it's not my fault if you suck at coming up with passwords. They're so easy to guess it's actually kind of embarrassing."

"You're _lying_. I wouldn't choose any password anyone could guess, let alone yo-"

"LangZiSays."

… _Oh._

Lang clenches his teeth. "W-well… regardless, how _dare_ you!"

She rolls her eyes with a bored look on her face. "In case you didn't get the memo, I'm a bad, bad girl. Now that we got that out of the way, how about we focus on this beauty right here?" she adds, lifting the cube a little higher. "My arm is getting tired of holding it up like this."

Having almost forgotten about it until that moment, Lang clenches his teeth even harder. "What are your terms?" he grits out. He expects another grin, and he's surprised when all he gets is a confused expression.

"What?" she – Shih-na, her name was Shih-na for a long time and that's what he'll keep calling her – says, sounding less than smug for the first time in the whole exchange.

Lang gives her an equally confused look. "… Surely you haven't brought the toxin with you solely to show it off," he says. What intentions could she have if not blackmail? She must have _terms_, right?

Shih-na stares at him for a few more moments, the perplexed expression still on her face, then…

"Pffft— HAHAHAHAHAHA!"

Lang gives a long sigh. "I suppose this means you didn't bring that with you to enforce your terms," he says.

"Hahaha! What made you think I did?" she asks, reaching to dry a few tears of mirth from her face with her free hand. "According to the database, you should know by now that I wasn't working for YggdraCorp. I was sorta set _against_ them, really. Funny how we're on the same side again after all these years, huh?"

"We were _never_ truly on the same side," Lang says, unable to keep all the bitterness out of his voice… and is it just him, or her smile is fading dreadfully quickly just now? "Who set you and the Phantom on them, precisely? Where _is_ the Phantom?"

She clicks her tongue disapprovingly. "So many questions I can't answer, so little time to make me talk. Time that would be best spent looking for the other cubes," she adds, and finally puts the cube she's been holding on the ground. The thought of tackling her flashes through Lang's mind, but he doesn't act on it. Something about what she just said makes him pause.

"How did you find that one?" he asks instead.

She chuckles. "If I have to be honest, it was by blind luck. But now that I know there are others hidden in the ship's air duct system, I think I may be able to figure out where they might be. I studied this ship's layout very closely before setting foot on it, believe me. I like being prepared, as you know."

Yes, Lang thinks, he knows, and _how_. Still, he knows well that at this point it doesn't truly matter _who_ is it that's offering him help: finding those cubes before they release the toxin is their first priority, as thousands of lives depend on that. "Why would you help us?"

She shrugs. "Hey, the Phantom of the Courthouse and I were sent here to make sure whoever got the toxin couldn't get off the ship with it and _use_ it. What makes you think our employer would like us to stand by and let it be released here? Not to mention that we _happen_ to be on board as well. I'd like to avoid sinking with the ship, if you get my drift. Speaking of which, do you have any other dumb questions to waste out time with? We don't have much left, you know."

As much as he hates to admit it, she's right. Lang forces himself to stop glaring death at her and turns to his men. "You. Take the cube to the lower deck – there is a sealable room in there. We'll seal all the cubes in there before they open so that the toxin stays inside," he orders, and looks back at Shih-na as the agent nods and does as he's told to, handling the cube as though he fears it's going to shatter at any moment. "How do you think you can figure out where the cubes are hidden?"

She smirks. "It's easy, really, when you put yourself in the bad guy's shoes."

"You are certainly better than anyone else at that," Lang snaps. She chuckles, but doesn't burst out laughing.

"Fair point. You see, if _I _wanted the toxin to be as effective as possible – I don't, stop looking at me like that! – I'd make sure to choose spots in the ventilation system that would make it spread more easily and quickly through the whole ship. The place where I found that one is one of those spots. Now be a good boy and get me a map of the whole duct system now, so that I can show you where I think the other cubes may be…"

* * *

"We have found another, Shifu! We're heading down another deck to see if we can find the next one!"

"Very well. Keep this up – there are three more cubes left to find and twenty minutes to do it."

"Yes, Shifu."

"See, I _told_ you I could guess where they'd be placed," the Yatagarasu points out, her voice reverberating through the duct they're crawling through.

Langs reply comes, predictably enough, as a snarl. "Lang Zi says: search where the water is deepest."

She laughs. She hadn't quite realized how much she had missed his ridiculous sayings until now. "Meaning...?"

"We'll see if you were indeed right once all the cubes have been found and safely sealed away."

"Hey, I pointed to nine places and so far, and three cubes have been found in the first five spots I told you to check out. We're on our way to another and your men will probably find the other two in the remaining spots. Relax, will you?"

Behind her, Lang scoffs. "Lang Zi says: on truth's path, the word 'probability' does not exist."

"Hu-uh. Didn't Lang Zi also say you should only cooperate with those you can trust?" the Yatagarasu asks with fake innocence, and she could swear she can _hear_ Lang's teeth grinding together – but, this time, he doesn't retort. After a few moments of silence, she decides to prod him again. It's just too much fun to see how far she can push him, and who knows if or when she'll get another chance.

"You know, if you let me do this on my own you could be off to recover another cube right now. We could be done faster."

"Hah! You wish. I'm not letting you out of my sight for one moment. If you believe I'm letting you get away, you're sorely mistaken!"

"Aww, so you want to keep me close? How cute!" she coos. Lang's sputtering would usually amuse her to no end, but right now she can only focus on one thing: the cube she can see right ahead of her, barely illuminated by her flashlight. "Hey, big bad wolf. Guess what Little Red Riding Hood's got in her basket?"

"I hope for your sake and that of everyone on this ship that it's one of those cubes."

"Would you settle for fresh butter, eggs and pasties?"

"_Shih-na!_"

Despite Lang's obvious exasperation, being called _that_ by him after all these years causes the grin to die on her lips, a dull ache in her chest. She ignores it and nods. "... Yeah. The cube," she says flatly. Once she's reaches it, she speaks quietly again. "There should be an easy opening a little further down. Keep following."

Neither of them says a word as they crawl their way to said opening and step out of the duct to find themselves in a hallway. Lang stretches with a grunt, and the comparison to a dog stretching after a nap comes unbidden to her mind. It almost makes her smile. Almost.

What does make her smile after a few moments, however, is Lang's expression when one of his men's voices comes from his communicator to let him know that two other cubes have been found in the spots she guessed they would be – meaning that, if Outis didn't lie about the number of those he put on the ship, the one they just found is the only one left. While Lang's obviously relieved, he's also clearly uncomfortable about the fact that she happened to be right. By the time he's done talking to his men and looks back at her, the grin is back on her face.

"Sooo. Who did a good job?"

He grumbles. "I suppose you're still as efficient as you used to be," he concedes. "Now we have to-"

"Help! Please, I- I need help!"

A sudden cry, along with the sound of someone running, causes him to trail off and them both to turn to the other end of the hallway. There is someone running towards them, a young woman with red hair and clothes stained with blood. The Yatagarasu has only ever seen her from afar a couple of times and then in pictures, but she recognizes her right away... and so does Lang.

"Cykes!" Lang exclaims, clearly surprised. "How did you- are you wounded? Did that madman hurt you? How did you escape? Where is he?"

"Wait, what?" the Yatagarasu says, frowning in confusion. "_She_ was the hostage? Wasn't it Blackquill?"

"What? No, Blackquill is in the infirmary along with Just-"

"No, he's not!" Cykes exclaims, apparently close to panic. She's gripping the lapels of Lang's jacket so hard that her fingers are starting to turn white, or so it seems. It's hard to tell with all the blood on them. "He's in Outis' cabin! I mean, Umber's! I mean- the one who took me hostage! He's there, and LaRoche is there too, and… I'm not hurt, this is not my blood, but he is! He's wounded, and the toxin…!"

That's enough to make the Yatagarasu's breath catch in her throat. Wounded? Who's wounded? Blackquill, the Phantom, both of them? And what is this about the toxin? Was it released after all? Was the Phantom affected?

Lang clearly shares her confusion, for he reaches to grasp Cykes' hands and pull them off himself. "Slow down, pup!" he barks, but he softens his voice when Cykes falls silent to draw in a trembling breath. "We- _I'm_ all for helping you out, but I need to know what's going on. Calm down and speak _normally_."

To her credit, Cykes is able to speak less frantically after drawing in a couple of long breaths. "Outis, he… I was separated from Simon and Apollo because… a-anyway, I woke up in this cabin, and Outis was there. He made the announcement, the one to the whole ship, and then…" she pauses for a moment, clearly realizing that a shorter version will do just fine and make them waste less time, for afterward she goes straight to the point. "Outis is dead, but the Phantom was shot and he was infected with the toxin," she blurts out. "He's in really bad shape, and he needs the antidote, and a doctor, and… Simon is fine, but he's staying with him while I look for… he needs a doctor, quickly!"

"What he needs quickly is the antidote," the Yatagarasu speaks up before Lang can even open his mouth to speak. "I think I know where I can find some. What cabin are they in?"

Cykes looks back at her, and she doesn't waste a moment to ask her who she even is. "Cabin 215, right upstairs on the left – near the end of the hallway," she says immediately.

Part of the Yatagarasu wants her to run upstairs right away, but she refrains from doing so. It would be useless without the antidote. "Fine," she says. "You go find the doctor and get him there," she says. By now Lang's agents may have carried out the order of getting the doctor and the wounded out in the air as well as a precaution, so getting him here in all that mess may take more time than it should, but there is no reason to tell her as much now; she's scared enough as it is. The sooner she's off to get a doctor, the better it is anyway. "Also, take this," she adds, pushing the cube into Cykes' arms. "Careful with it – you really _don't_ want to drop this one."

Lang turns to her so fast that she can almost _hear_ his neck cracking. "What do you think you're doing? We're supposed to take it to my men so that they can seal it away with the others before time's up!"

"What _I _am supposed to do now is make sure my idiot partner doesn't get himself killed," she retorts. "I'm off to get the antidote now. Since you said you're not letting me out of your sight, then you've got to come with me. Which means that someone else has to deliver this one for us."

Cykes, who's been following the exchange with slight confusion, looks back at her with wide eyes. "Are you… you're working with Robert?"

The Yatagarasu chuckles. "What, you're on a first name basis? How cute! And to think he was such a stick in the mud with me. Yeah, you could say we're colleagues. Well, Lang?" she adds, looking back at him. "We have no time to waste. Make up your mind."

Lang growls something under his breath – the Yatagarasu is rather sure she just heard him making a quite inelegant reference to a female dog – but he nods, and turns to Cykes.

"… Very well. We'll do our best to help, but we need your help in return. You need to go down to the B deck. I'll let my men know you're coming. Give the cube to them – it must be the very first thing you do. Once it's safely in their hands, tell them you need a doctor, tell them _where_, and they'll see to it. Is that clear?"

Cykes nods. "Yes," she says, her voice remarkably firm. "Do you know if Apollo is okay, too?"

"Justice? Knocked out cold last time I saw him, but he'll be fine. Now go."

"Right. I'll be as quick as possible. Thank you," Cykes adds, this time looking at the Yatagarasu, and the next moment she's leaving as quickly as she can without running and thus risk dropping the cube.

Smart kid, the Yatagarasu thinks, and for a moment the memory of another girl only slightly younger than her makes it back into her mind, but she's quick to chase it away. She avoids thinking of Kay Faraday almost as much as she avoids thinking about her father, or about Badd.

"Let's get going," is all she says, and she hears Lang starting to speak in his transmitter as he follows her.

* * *

"Are you certain we'll find the antidote here?"

Shih-na shrugs, fiddling with the door's electronic lock with an odd instrument that looks all the world like a nail filer – except that nail filers don't have red blinking lights across them, he's sure, nor do they open electronic locks like this one does just a moment later.

"Not certain, no. But I know for a fact that the late CEO had some for herself, to give the other big names of YggdraCorp should anything go wrong. Smart thinking, that. Too bad the antidote doesn't cure bullets in one's head. Hey, want to know what was the last thing that went through her mind?" she asks as she pushes the door open and they step inside.

Lang sighs. "What was it?"

"A bullet!"

"… I don't know what I was expecting."

She laughs, reaching to the wall to turn on the light. "Aw, stop being so dour! Sheesh, I swear that even the Phantom could — hey, looks like we weren't the first ones to get here."

That must is obvious to Lang as well as soon as he lays his eyes on the cabin. Both closet and drawers have been thrown open, clothes and various articles of lingerie – which Lang is determined _not_ to focus on – scattered on the bed and across the floor. Someone has clearly been there to search for something… and in a hurry, too. "Looks like someone had our same idea when Outis announced he was going to unleash the toxin," Shih-na muses, and Lang scowls.

"It must have been one of those who escaped us in the casino. The chief of staff, a couple of buyers and some members of YggdraCorp's security team are still missing."

"You can rule out the chief of staff – that was the Phantom. And hey, since when do you let people escape from roundups? You used to be _good_ at those."

Lang's scowl deepens. "One of them must have thrown a flash bomb. We were blinded for a while, all of us. I'll make sure to return the favor when I get my hands on whoever it was."

"… Ah," she says, and changes the subject right away. "Okay, back to the topic at hand, maybe there is still some antidote left. She must have had more than one vial. C'mon, let's get looking. I'll search the bathroom and you can look among the bras and panties."

"Fine. If you find any- what? You can forget it!" Lang snaps, his face suddenly warmer. He won't be caught dead with lady's underwear in his hands, let alone with _her_ around to see and spread the word. "_I'll_ be searching the bathroom. If you find anyth-" he starts, but he doesn't get to finish the sentence, because the next moment three things happen in quick succession: Shih-na shoves him aside with enough strength to throw him against the wall, a shot rings out, and she's thrown on the ground like a rag doll.

_Someone tried to shoot me_, Lang thinks, and the rest comes to him easily, the result of years of training: he turns, ducking under another bullet in the same motion, and his own gun is out before the one who shot – a tall man with a bald head, obviously enough one of YggdraCorp's security guards – can try to fire again.

He must have been inside when they got there and hid in the bathroom before they opened the door, waiting for his chance to shoot them in the back and leave. But he wasted that chance… and Lang isn't going to give him another one. Another shot rings out, this time from Lang's own gun, and it's the last: a spray of blood stains the wall as the man falls back, a gaping hole in his forehead. There is a moment of silence, Lang's own rushing blood and beating heart all he can hear for a few moments… before the laugh rings out, of course.

"Hahahaha! Hey, not bad! You've still got it!" Shih-na says, but her laugh feels forced, and it's only now that Lang realizes that she's been hit. He immediately turns to see her sitting up on the ground, her left hand holding on her right arm a little below her shoulder. There is blood running through her fingers.

"You're injured," Lang says, and she grins.

"I really can't hide anything from you, Agent Shi-Long Lang of the House of Lang," she mutters. He puts the gun away and takes a step towards her.

"Let me see that."

"Aww, you care!" she coos, and laughs at his grim expression before she starts standing up, pulling her hand away from the injured arm. "It's nothing much anyway. Little more than a scratch – see?"

That's true: the wound is obviously superficial, and she's not losing much blood. The bullet is embedded in the wall behind her. Lang breathes a little more easily, but while his sudden worry subsides, surprise doesn't. "You pushed me aside," he hears himself saying, realization only now sinking in. That, obviously, causes her to break out in another fit of laughter.

"Pwwwfff—hahahaha! Sharp as a knife, aren't you?" she says, still chuckling.

"But why? If he shot me, you'd be free to—"

"Be in your debt again? I think I'll pass," she cuts him off. "I had a debt to Alba for a long time, and look how well _that_ turned out. Besides, it's fitting. You took a bullet for me some ten years ago, I took a bullet for you now. See? We're even."

Something about her words causes him to scowl. "We're still well away from being even after all the crimes you committed," he says. Part of him wonders just what kind of debt she had to Alba, but this is hardly the time for such questions.

She shrugs. "Hey, you gotta start somewhere," she says before walking past him and to the dead body on the ground. Lang tenses when she crouches next to it, ready to reach for his gun should she try to take the dead man's and aim it at him, but she entirely ignores it. She searches the body, and within moments she pulls back, something in her hands – a syringe filled with a blue liquid. "Here's the antidote," she says, and stands. "Let's get going, okay? We've wasted enough time, and the Phantom may not have much of it left."

There is nothing Lang can object there.

* * *

The sound of the door banging open is what startles Blackquill out of the stunned trance he's been in for the past several minutes, unable to do anything but stare at LaRoche's still form. When he turns, hoping to see Athena back with a doctor, he finds himself staring back at Agent Lang and a woman he's never seen before.

For several moments they can only stare at each other in stunned silence, Blackquill's eyes fixed on them and their gazes moving from Outis' dead body to him, then to LaRoche's own body cradled in his arms, and then back to him. It's Lang who eventually breaks the silence.

"What... how... what in the blazes _happened _in here! Blackquill, you-" he starts, only to trail off when the woman pushes past him and walks up to Blackquill and LaRoche.

"Barking isn't going to get you explanations any faster, Lang. You get out of the way," she adds, pushing Blackquill aside and crouching down, gently leaning LaRoche's upper body on the floor. She reaches to press two fingers on his throat.

"He's still alive," she mutters, relief plain in her voice. Blackquill has barely the time to process what she's saying before she produces a syringe seemingly out of nowhere, sticks it at the base of LaRoche's neck and injects him with whatever is in it.

"Is that...?" Blackquill asks, still kneeling next to LaRoche's head, and Lang nods.

"The antidote to the toxin," he says, then turns back to the woman. "Will it be enough to save him?"

She presses her lips together, her expression grim. "We can only hope it does. What's for sure is that he's not getting to keep that hand," she adds, glancing at his now entirely blackened hand. She reaches to pull up his sleeve, and lets out a low whistle when she sees that both his wrist and forearm are blackening as well. "Well, scratch that. He's not getting to keep the arm. Nor that leg, if that's what I think it is."

Blackquill blinks in confusion, but he understands what she means as soon as he follows her gaze. There is something sticking out of LaRoche's shin, something he didn't notice before: a small dart. The woman reaches to pull it off before letting out a hum, staring at LaRoche's leg. The trousers are soaked with blood just above the spot where the dart was – a bullet wound, no doubt.

"Maybe the wound will help him keep part of his leg, though," she muses aloud. "It probably let out plenty of the toxin along with the blood. Gotta stop the blood loss, though. Well, who would have thought that Alba's boring war tales would be of use at some point. We need rope, or strips of fabric, or something. Hey, Lang, take off your shirt!"

Lang scoffs. "You can just as well use his shirt," he says, nodding towards LaRoche's still body.

The woman – the mysterious Shih-na, Blackquill has to assume by this point – grins at him. "Can't blame a girl for trying," is all she says before turning her attention back to LaRoche, her hand disappearing under her shirt to come out with a small blade. She moves quickly, and in a matter of moments the blood-soaked suit and shirt LaRoche is wearing have been cut open, exposing his bloodied chest. Blackquill is relieved to see no sign of rotting flesh there.

She gives a low whistle. "Well, damn. He's either got the Devil's own luck or some weird power to deflect bullets. Shoulder, abdomen, leg. I don't think the one in the abdomen hit anything vital. Either this Outis guy had eriously bad aim, or he wasn't planning to shoot him dead," she mutters as she starts cutting a long strip of fabric from the bloody shirt. She ties it loosely around LaRoche's leg, a little above the knee. "Lang, I'm going to need a stick."

"Where do you expect me to find one in here?"

"How about the one up your ass?" is the flippant suggestion.

"_Shih-na_!" Lang barks.

She rolls her eyes. "Fine, _fine_. How about you break one of the clothes hangers in the closet? If they're the same in all cabins, they should be made of wood. Two sticks would work best, really."

Lang snarls, but he does walk to the closet and open it. Sure enough, the clothes hangers are all made of wood. It doesn't take Lang much effort to break one in half and obtain the closest to sticks they can hope to find in there. He hands over both pieces to the woman. "Will this work?"

"Yeah, I don't think we can be picky," the Yatagarasu says, reaching to take them. She places one of them beneath the strip tied to LaRoche's leg and turns it several times, twisting the cloth and tightening the loop around the leg. When she ties it in place with another piece of cloth, the makeshift tourniquet is tight enough to keep more blood from oozing out of the wound. She does the same for his infected arm – to keep more infected blood from passing to the rest of his body, Blackquill suspects – and presses another piece of cloth to the wound on the Phantom's stomach.

Her other hand rests on his forehead, brushing away the hair that's sticking to it, wet with blood and sweat.

"C'mon now," she mutters, her voice so low Blackquill can barely hear her. "Don't be a spoilsport. I'm not done with you yet. There's still mocking material to last years. Just _wake_ _up_."


	17. Back

_A/N: I ended up having to move a scene over to the next chapter, because even this was getting a bit too long. Ah well. It fits the next chapter best anyway. At least this one finally tells you whether the Phantom makes it or not. _XD  
_Thanks a lot to Keyanna for proofreading!_

* * *

_The pain is gone_.

As soon as the thought crosses his mind, LaRoche clings to it. It's the first flash of real awareness after everything had gone dark, Blackquill's bloodied face – _but it was his own blood, not Blackquill's; Blackquill is fine, he's safe_ – the last thing he remembers, along with the blazing pain on the left side of his body.

Not anymore, though. It's _gone_, and thinking gets easier by the moment. He's lying on his back on something flat, neither cold nor warm, neither hard nor soft. He can't quite open his eyes, each lid seemingly weighing a ton, but he shifts, and the half-expected wave of pain doesn't reach him. Even when he opens and closes his hand, the one that was turning black before he even passed out, there is no pain.

This isn't right, he thinks. There should be pain, and most of all there should be at least some sort of _noise_ around him. Instead, there is nothing but deafening silence.

Is this what death is like? If so, LaRoche is more than willing to welcome it. It seems that dying was nowhere near as terrible as he expected it to be, after all. It is a relief, actually. The end of everything. The end of pain.

It seems that the moniker Blackquill gave him – _Phantom_ – is more fitting now than ever before. But it's all right, he thinks: Blackquill is fine, and so is Cykes. As for him, he got the end he deserved. Now that he's felt _hatred_ for the first time since he can remember, now that he _knows_ how much you can come to hate the person who took someone important from you, how much hatred _he_ deserves – because he's no better than Outis, he never was, and he's killed people who mattered to others just as much as Seymour mattered to him – he can see that now.

He had thought he had learned what regret was two years ago, but he was wrong. He never knew until now. Had he known before, then perhaps he would have had the decency to stay and face his he wouldn't have run away.

_How much is remorse worth when what you have taken is something you can never give back?_

Nothing, he thinks. It's worth nothing, much like him.

A sharp twinge in his chest causes him to recoil, and on impulse he does what he's been unable to do until a moment ago: he opens his eyes, and darkness gives way to grayness. Everything around him seems to be a dark gray, even the floor that doesn't look like a floor at all: only more barely consistent grayness. He can see no end to it, as far as the eye can see. And the gray nothingness isn't still, either. It seems to buzz and flicker, much like static on a television screen – and beyond the gray he can barely make out shadows moving, appearing and disappearing from his sight in a matter of moments as though they're past impalpable curtains.

And everything is still silent, unnaturally so.

LaRoche sits up, barely registering the fact that he's wearing the orange uniform he wore in prison, and opens his mouth to call out for whoever may hear him, to ask where he is. But a familiar voice reaches him first, causing words to die in his throat.

"They can't hear you. You don't belong here yet, not really."

This is impossible, LaRoche thinks, but even as the thought crosses his mind he turns to face the source of the voice, to face _him_. Seymour is sitting on a non-existent floor, cross-legged, only a few feet from him. He's holding something – the bird, LaRoche thinks, the crystal bird he stole for his thirteenth birthday – in his hands, and his head is tilted to one side as he observes him.

"... You didn't change much," he speaks up. "Well, aside from getting older. Not old enough, though. You weren't supposed to show up here for another while. You big _idiot_. What part of lunging for the one with the gun sounded like a bright idea to you? Did you even think that through? No, wait, don't answer. I already know."

_What were you thinking? Bet you weren't! You never think!_

LaRoche stares at him for several moments before he can make his voice work again. "This isn't real," he manages. "I'm hallucinating."

"You're _dying_," Seymour counters, and gestures at their surroundings. "You're not dead yet, though, so maybe they'll manage to drag you back. They don't have much time to, but you can never know. You have thick skin. That would be great – let him know he wasn't able to drag you down with him," he adds, and looks at something over LaRoche's shoulder. He turns to see a shadow, a human-like one, standing in the distance through a curtain of grayness. It's as though it's looking at them, and LaRoche realizes who Seymour just implied it to be one moment before the boy speaks again.

"Don't worry, he can't get to you. Not while you're in-between. Nor later, if you don't want him to."

LaRoche turns away from the _thing_ that used to be Outis and spares it no further thought: all he can focus on now is Seymour, who looks exactly like he did the day he died. He still thinks he's hallucinating, he must be... but he finds himself speaking regardless. "Where are we?"

Seymour glances around. "In-between. I passed _over_, but I can return here if I want to. I did last time you were here, too."

"Last time...?" LaRoche repeats, entirely at a loss. He has no memory of this, none at all.

"It was after he shot you, too. But you weren't really _here_ – you just stared at nothing and didn't speak at all. I tried and tried, but you never reacted to anything. It was because you were in a coma, I think. You only spoke when you began fading because you were starting to wake up. You asked me who I was," he adds, and he gives a sad smile. "I didn't even have time to answer. After that, you went _back_. As in, you survived," Seymour adds, noticing his confusion. "That's what we say of those who get in-between and then survive. They go _back_."

The mere thought of going _back_ makes LaRoche feel as though an icy hand has grabbed his insides. He doesn't think it's possible: he was shot several times and, even though he doesn't think any of the bullets hit a critical organ, the toxin in his system is unlikely to spare him. Even if by some miracle he doesn't die, he knows he's not going to make it through undamaged... and he knows that he'd have to face Blackquill again, then the gallows.

The thought of hanging doesn't scare him anymore; he's been through too much, felt pain that would make death a relief. But Blackquill – how could he face Blackquill again? What would he say? What _could_ he say?

Nothing, he knows. Nothing but the pathetic excuses of a coward. Blackquill is safe; there is nothing else to tell him, nothing else he should tell him. Let this charade end, he thinks – let him die, let Blackquill bury his corpse in the grave that was dug for him two years ago and move on once and for all.

"I don't want to go back," he hears himself saying, and suddenly his voice is different, no longer an adult's. LaRoche looks down to see that his hands are different, too – a boy's hands. No scar is marring the back of his right hand anymore.

"That's not your choice, you know. Someone kills you, you die. Someone saves you, you go back."

"I _can't_ go back!" Robb chokes out, and the next moment he's crying and he can't make himself stop, no matter how much he tries to dry his tears. "I must die, I should have died – I should have died with _you_, I should have stayed, I should have _tried_-!"

He doesn't realize Seymour has moved until he kneels right in front of him and reaches to pull him close. Robb holds him back, tight, and everything feel so _real_ – he feels solid and warm and the embrace feels everything like those they shared when Seymour was alive and they though they could take on the world, no matter what was thrown at them.

"I left you to die. You screamed for me and I left you to die," Robb manages, burying his face in the crook of Seymour's shoulder. He can't stop sobbing, and something in his chest _really_ hurts, more than even the toxin did. "I let him _kill_ you and... and...!"

_You ran away_, he expects Seymour to say, as he did in his nightmares and hallucinations._ You left me to die. I won't let you forget. You killed me, Robb._

Seymour's grip on him tightens, and what he says is entirely different. "There was nothing you could have done," he says, and his voice is shaking a little, too. "He would have killed both of us. And I would have kicked you ten ways to Sunday for doing something so stupid."

"I brought you there. I _killed_ you."

"It was an _accident_."

"You were _screaming_, and I-"

"I'll scream again if you don't shut _up_."

And Robb does shut up, if only because he's crying too hard to say anything intelligible anymore. Seymour is crying, too, and by the time they finally stop Robb is feeling so tired that he couldn't pull back even if he wanted to. He opens his eyes again when he feels Seymour's hand stroking his hair.

"I missed you," Robb croaks. "Even when I didn't remember you. I just didn't know it."

"... I've missed you, too."

"I want to stay. _Please_, let me stay."

"It's out of our hands."

"I don't want to leave you alone again!"

Seymour seems to shudder, and it takes Robb a moment to realize he's laughing.

"Leave me alone? Really?" he repeats, and finally pulls back. He reaches up to dry his eyes and he's not laughing too hard anymore, but he's still smiling. "Do you have the slightest idea how many people have died before us? There's a lot more of us than there are of _you_! You just can't see them or... well, anything else. I can't tell you about the _rest_, though. That's the rule when we get to talk to someone who hasn't passed over."

"But I _will_ die," Robb insists. "Even if I make it back now, _they_ will have me killed later. Or I'll be executed."

The smile fades from Seymour's face. "I hope not. Don't let that happen. I don't want to see your ugly mug again before you're old enough to wave a stick at kids on your lawn."

"But I-"

"Promise me," Seymour cuts him off. There is a sharp edge to his voice, and with his gray eyes narrowed under an unruly mop of black hair he looks more like Blackquill than he ever did before. And yet, what he's asking of him is the complete opposite of what Simon Blackquill made him promise two years ago. "Promise you won't let them kill you. Promise me you won't be back until your time is _really_ up."

_Promise me that when the moment comes you'll stand there as a man, and die as one._

_Prosecutor..._

"Seymour-"

Seymour's hands shot out to grasp his shoulders and give him a shake. "Promise me, Robb!"

_Promise me, Fool Bright_.

_... I'll try, sir._

"I _can't_," Robb chokes out. "I can't do it, I can't make promises – I _break_ my promises, all of them. I did it all _wrong_. I promised we could take on the world, and then I promised you'd be fine, and I promised Blackquill I'd die as a man, and-"

A sudden shudder shakes his whole frame, causing him to trail off. All of a sudden, he's cold. He looks down at his own hands, and he can see now that they're an adult's hands again – the scar Cykes left on him once again on the back of his right hand. But he barely notices it: all his mind can register is the fact that he can just barely see _through_ them.

"They're bringing you _back_," he hears Seymour saying, wonder plain in his voice. "They're actually _making_ it!"

Fear grips LaRoche's stomach in a vise-like grip. He can't even think of facing Blackquill again, of having to talk to him – and he doesn't want to leave Seymour, not after having found him again for such a short time.

"No!" he exclaims, reaching out to grab the boy, but his transparent hands pass right through him. It's as though he's the ghost, and not Seymour, who's looking solid and real as though he never died. A small smile curls Seymour's lips.

"Don't fight it. Close your eyes and let go."

"I can't go without you!"

"I can't follow you. Just go. And don't you dare show up again for another thirty years at least."

"No! No, I need- I need more _time_!"

Seymour's smile grows just a little wider, and just a little sadder. "Yes, you do. You need more time. But not _here_. We'll have all the time you want, later," he says, then lowers his head and starts speaking in a soft tone – reciting something LaRoche remembers him reciting before – a poem he read to him a lifetime ago. "There will be time, there will be time, to prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet. There will be time to murder and create..."

"Seymour...!" LaRoche calls out, despair starting to leak into his voice. Keeping his eyes open is harder and harder, as though something is actually trying to force his eyelids to close.

_Don't fight it. Close your eyes and let go._

_No!_

The boy looks back at him, and his eyes are clouded with tears. "Time for you and time for me, and time yet for a hundred indecisions, and for a hundred visions and revisions," he says, his voice shaking. Some tears finally roll down his cheeks, but he smiles as he reaches to wipe them off with the back of his hand. "Promise me you won't be back until you're old and I can make fun of your bald spot. Or at least promise me you'll try."

… _I'll try, sir._

LaRoche opens his mouth to say that he doesn't want to go, that he can't promise he won't die soon, that he can't promise anything – but the whisper that leaves him is to say something else entirely.

"... I'll try, birdbrain."

Seymour smiles and that's it, that's the last he sees before his eyes close. They close for only one moment, just enough time to blink, or so it seems to him – but when he opens them again everything is so much brighter, almost painfully so, and Seymour is gone. In his place, right above him, LaRoche can see the Yatagarasu's familiar Cheshire cat grin.

"Hey, Phantom of the Courthouse. This is the second time I greet your sorry ass back in the land of the living. If there's gonna be a third time, let Deep Throat know that I want a raise."

* * *

"What do you mean, I have to stay outside? The cubes are sealed off and I was given the antidote anyway! You have to let me go back! I need to show the doctor the way!"

The Interpol agent seems slightly intimidated by Athena's anger and clenched fists, but he doesn't budge. "Please, try to understand – this area may still be hazardous. We only had that man's word that there were no more than seven cubes, not to mention that there may be armed people still on board. We can't let any civilian in until the ship is safely in a port and the police can come in. One of our men is leading the doctor to the cabin you told us. There is no need for you to come. Please, go outside. Mr. Justice has been asking for you since the moment he woke up."

"… Oh," Athena finds herself saying, any retort she was about to give dying in her throat. Apollo! She almost forgot after asking Lang – how could she? "How is he?"

The shadow of a smile passes on the man's face. "Oh, fine enough. I believe he had to be dragged out kicking and screaming. He was truly worried for you."

"Ah," Athena manages, the guilt for almost forgetting all about him in the midst of chaos getting stronger. And Trucy and Pearl, too – how are they holding up with all that's going on in the ship? They're probably worried for her, too. "I… I guess I should go outside and look for him, then."

"Do that. And don't worry about a thing – whoever is need of medical help will receive it shortly. You have our word. Actually, it's very likely that a doctor is already there."

Athena can only hope he's right.

* * *

"... Chrysalis?"

The moment LaRoche's weak voice reaches his ears, time seems to slow down for Blackquill. He's alive, is all he can think – he's alive, and he's _awake_.

Blackquill finds himself moving before the realization has had time to truly sink in, the sense of unreality that's clouded his mind from the moment LaRoche passed out in his arms finally starting to fade.

"LaRoche," he breathes, pushing the woman aside to kneel next to him. He doesn't lift him again, but he does reach to grasp his good hand. "Can you hear me?"

LaRoche's gaze stays unfocused for a few moments, then his mouth twitches in what may be an attempt at smiling. "You brought me back," he rasps.

"Hey! _I _did that!" the Yatagarasu protests somewhere behind him, but Blackquill pays her no mind.

"Tch. When will you cease your attempts at putting me in your debt? You should know that I won't have it."

"You did _nothing_," the Yatagarasu points out.

"Be _quiet_," Lang snaps.

LaRoche gives no sign of having heard either of them. He weakly tightens his grip on Blackquill's hand. "Debt?" he repeats, and gives a noise that may even sound like a chuckle. "If that's... that's what you... may I... will you do something... for me?"

It feels as though something is stuck in his throat, and Blackquill needs a moment before he can speak. "... Within reason, yes."

LaRoche's grip, which has slackened after a few moments, tightens again – if barely. "Will you... lie to me, only this once?"

"Lie to you?" Blackquill repeats. For a moment he's sure he hasn't heard right, but LaRoche's next words wipe away all doubt.

"Tell me... tell me you have... missed me."

Blackquill stares at him for several moments before what he just heard sinks in. When it does, he finds himself grasping LaRoche's good hand with both of his own. "You fool," he hears himself saying. "You know I vowed no lie would leave my lips ever again. I'll keep that vow."

LaRoche shuts his eyes and shivers. "... I know. I'm... I'm so-"

"What you ask of me is nothing but the truth. I have mourned you, and... and I have missed you."

"_Aww!_"

"What the hell are you-" Lang starts somewhere on his left, his voice a couple of octaves higher than usual, but there is a smacking sound and he trails off with a yelp.

"Down, boy. Don't interrupt. Besides, you know you missed me too."

"What gave you such a ridiculous idea?"

"The fact you've been looking for me around the world for some ten years?"

"That was to _arrest_ you."

"Sure thing, Javert."

"What are you even-?"

Blackquill almost snaps at them to be silent or at least to go solve their obvious issues somewhere else – he can barely work out his own, let alone _theirs_ – but he opts to ignore them when LaRoche just stares up at him for several moments, eyes searching his face for any trace of a lie... and then slowly, painfully, smiles.

"Thank you, Simon."

_Simon. _It's the first time Blackquill has heard his name coming from him, and for a moment it causes something in his chest to ache. "Silence," he mutters. "Spare your thanks until you're out of danger."

Another weak noise that might be a chuckle. "I... I doubt I'm long for this world... either way. But I wouldn't mind trying to... to stick around... as long as-" he trails off and draws in a shuddering breath. Whatever little strength he had left seems to be fading fast, and he speaks with greater difficulty by the moment. Blackquill can tell he'll sink back into unconsciousness soon. "Will you... stay with me?"

"... Of course. Now rest. A doctor is coming, and I won't be listening to another word from you until you've received medical help," he adds, but he doesn't get to know if LaRoche even heard him: he sinks back into unconsciousness just as Blackquill utters those words, his eyes closing and grip on his hand slackening.

There is a long moment of silence, finally broken by a sigh. "Ah well. Guess there's nothing more I can do here," the Yatagarasu says somewhat thoughtfully before grinning at Blackquill. "I'll be on my way. You take good care of my partner, okay? I'll pick him up when he's less of a pathetic mess."

That causes Lang to snap out of his confusion. He turns to glare at her with a snarl. "Your only way from here is in prison! Lang Zi says-"

She cuts him off with a laugh. "Pwfff- hahahahaha! Oh, you and your Lang Zi! Never change, Lang. See you around!" she exclaims, and before Lang can even take one step towards her she lifts her hand to her right ear, tears off her earring and throws it on the ground.

"Ah!"

The bright flash of light hurts Blackquill's eyes, causing him to shut them with a curse. From what he can hear, though, Lang is far more creative at cursing than he is. He can hear him stumbling around, too, clearly trying to get to the door and after her even while blinded. It's a futile effort, Blackquill is sure, but he knows he'd be attempting the same in his place. There are more noises, more curses, gradually getting more distant. By the time Blackquill can make himself open his eyes both Lang and the Yatagarasu are gone, and he's once again alone with LaRoche.

Still blinking, Blackquill lowers his gaze to LaRoche again. Now that he's been given the antidote his breathing is no longer as difficult as before. He even looks _peaceful_, despite the blood still coating his face, and things seem less bleak than they did not too long ago. Blackquill reaches to brush off black hair – dyed, no doubt, because his natural color is a straw-like blond – off his forehead.

All of a sudden he's reminded of last time he was on the brink of death, in his office, in his arms; he had been as desperate for him to live as he is now.

_God damn you, don't. I chased you for so long. Stay. Don't go where I can't follow, Fool Bright_.

_He... saved my life, Simon, he did, and now he's losing so much blood, and... the toxin, he was poisoned – we both were, but he gave the antidote to me!_

"You _dotard_," Blackquill hears himself saying, his grip on LaRoche's limp hand tightening. He just kept his promise to face death as a man, as he failed to do two years ago... but to Blackquill it's like he's just now returned from the dead and he's not ready to let go of him again, not _yet_, not before they can talk things through. He opens his mouth to say something, he doesn't even know what, but before he can make a noise there is the sound of rushing steps.

Blackquill turns to the door just in time to see one of Lang's men pausing on the doorway, along with a man he recognizes as the doctor in the infirmary. They both look a little green in the face, their eyes darting from Outis' cooling corpse to LaRoche, and then to Blackquill – who finds it in himself to smirk.

"Well, doctor," he says. "I should hope you can guess who your patient is."

He can.

* * *

"ATHENA!"

She has barely enough time to recognize Apollo's voice – the Chords of Steel are easy to recognize, even without her hearing – and almost no time to turn around before he's on her. All _three_ of them are, because Trucy and Pearl are there as well, and in a moment Athena finds herself caught in the tightest group hug she can recall being caught in – and it doesn't help that they're in a crowded outside deck, with other passengers pressing on all sides.

"Are you alright? Whose blood is this? You're not wounded, are you?"

"We were worried sick, and the Interpol didn't know anything...!"

"Where have you been? What happened?"

They're all speaking at the same time and Apollo is holding her tight enough to steal her breath. When she tries to speak, to explain what happened, only a croaking sound leaves her and she realizes she's weeping. So is Pearl, really, and Trucy's voice is shaking a bit, and Apollo's heart is crying out his relief louder than even his Chords of Steel ever could.

"I thought I'd never see you again," she manages, and for a while there is no need for words: they know she's _safe_, and their hearts are telling her everything she needs to hear right now.

* * *

"… We got all of them, and the ship should be good to go if—"

"We'll keep it here a while longer," Lang says, cutting of the agent's report. "Lang Zi says: successful investigations are the result of multiple returns to a crime scene. We'll be getting our own experts here to take another good look around. Not to mention that there is the matter of the sealed room with the toxin's gas. From what little information we have gathered on it, that door won't be safe to open for at least another week. I sure hope the navigation company has a plan B."

"Yes, shifu. They'll transfer the passengers to another cruise ship in two days so that they can resume their cruise. They'll stay in a hotel until then. The ship will be at our complete disposal as long as it's needed to carry on the investigation."

"Good. Civilian casualties?"

"None."

"Hmm. Our injured men?"

"They'll all make a full recovery."

"Excellent. I'll visit each of them as soon as I get a break to do so. Blackquill?"

"No further injury aside from the stab wound on his leg. He and a few others left when the Phantom was transported to the closest hospital."

Lang nods, already having a rather good idea of who the other passengers are: Cykes, no doubt, and certainly Justice as well. The two kids who got on board with them may have gone with them, too.

"I should have imagined he'd go with him."

"Should we send someone, or…?"

"No. Leave them alone for now – there is enough security in that place as it is. There will be time for them to testify – plenty of it. And the Phantom certainly isn't going anywhere anytime soon," he adds. It seems that Blackquill's phantom has been apprehended… while his own is still on the loose after her latest disappearing act.

There is a brief pause before he speaks again.

"… Any trace of her?"

"No, shifu. We couldn't find her anywhere – we only found a mask with the features she had when you last saw her. She must have mixed with the passengers after taking it off. But we could send someone to-"

Lang scoffs. "No. Until the others reach us we're spread thin enough, and it would be a waste of time and resources. We have no more chances to find her than a wolf to catch a crow up in the air. The wolf will wait for the crow to come close to the ground, and so will I."

The agent shifts a little uncomfortably beside him. "Do you think it will come close to the ground? I mean, do you think we'll hear of her again?"

That's a question Lang has no rational answer for. There is nothing telling him that he and Shih-na may cross paths again – nothing but a gut feeling, and what she said to him before making her escape.

_Never change, Lang. See you around!_

"Who knows," Lang finally says slowly. "Lang Zi says: the truth lies not at the exit, but rather, shines outside the maze itself. We may meet again, and that day she had better be prepared," he says, and smirks, letting his gaze wander past the docks and to the horizon. "Because I know _I_ will be."

* * *

"And… and that was when Simon found us."

As Athena's voice fades, a long silence falls on the waiting room. Neither Trucy Wright nor Pearl Fey seem to know what to say, and Justice's usually annoyingly loud voice isn't heard either – although, if he looked, Blackquill would see his grip on Athena's hand tightening. He's been holding her hand since the moment they got there after the Phantom was rushed to the emergency room, and he has hardly let go of it since.

But Blackquill doesn't see it, because he's not looking at any of them: he's keeping his gaze fixed on the tiled floor, not really seeing it, for Athena's tale is all that fills his mind. That LaRoche had willingly given the antidote to Athena when forced to choose was something he knew: even in her panicked state, Athena had told him as much when he found them.

What he did not know was in how much pain LaRoche was in before he even made that choice, one that would make anyone falter. He must have felt like he was in Hell already, and he still chose to use what strength he had to give Athena a chance at living, not even knowing whether or not Outis would let her live once he had condemned himself.

_Outis_.

Blackquill clenches his teeth. His death was gruesome, but Blackquill's fury is still far from sated. After what he did to Athena and now that he knows what he did to the boy who would become the Phantom, how he was the one to set everything in motion, he wishes he had a chance to cut him down himself. What he said at the phone makes sense now, all of it.

_Why, I think I can see why he found you so interesting. Pity it was also his downfall. That's something I can't quite forgive you for, I'm afraid._

_I want to help you this one time, Simon Blackquill – even though you ruined my finest work._

_Did he try to warn you? He couldn't save his friend, so now he hopes he can save you? How pitiful._

"… It was me he wanted," Blackquill finally hears himself saying. "That's why he showed himself while Justice and I were trapped. He probably planned on taking us somewhere else, get Justice out of the way and take me down to be a bait. He may have succeeded, hadn't LaRoche warned me with that picture. Outis was certain I had never seen his face. The fact that I recognized him ruined his plan, and he took Athena instead," he says, and hangs his head in shame.

Some protector he's been for her: he put her in the worst possible kind of danger by failing to have her watched, by failing to take down Outis when he could. That weasel had played dirty, but he was a _spy_ and Blackquill should have expected him to have some dirty trick up his sleeve.

Athena seems to sense his guilt, and reaches to put a hand on his arm. "It wasn't your fault," she says, her voice a bit shaky. "You told me to stay away, and I came snooping around anyway."

"We both did," Justice speaks up, and makes a remarkable attempt at smiling. "Actually, I think I've been the useless lump there. At least you two took down a security guard or two each."

Athena returns his hesitant smile with one of her own, and squeezes his hand back. "Well, _technically_ you helped. I threw that guy on your head to knock him out, after that bucket of ice hit him in the face," she adds, her smile widening just a bit, and all of a sudden she sounds everything like herself again. "Ice bucket challenge, Cykes style!"

That gets a weak smile even out of Blackquill, although it's not because of the joke as much because of the fact that even now, even after what she's been through, her first thought is reassuring others. Her mother would be proud of her, he thinks, and he's about to voice that thought – but Trucy and Pearl speak first.

"Wow, so you took one down with your hair horns? That's better than a magic trick!"

"That was _really_ brave of you, Mr. Apollo!"

"Hey, knock it off! Aww, it was nothing, Pearl, I just—Trucy, _knock it off_!"

As Trucy laughs and so does Athena – it's good to hear her laughing, it truly is – and turns his gaze back to the floor. It doesn't last long: both his musings and the laugh are interrupted by the sound of a door opening, and footsteps. Unsurprisingly enough, it's one of the surgeons who's been attending the Phantom. She looks tired as she approaches them and they stand.

"I have no _clue_ what kind of toxin he was given, but I know I'll be a happy woman if I never have to deal with it in my life. He was lucky to be provided the antidote on time. He would have certainly died without it."

"Does that mean he's out of danger?" Blackquill asks, mildly surprised by how firm his voice sounds.

The surgeon nods. "I believe he'll live, yes. None of the gunshots wounds he suffered is lethal, and the toxin seems to have been washed away from his system. Not without causing significant damage, I'm afraid. His left arm had to be amputated at the shoulder: there was nothing left to save."

It's what Blackquill expected to hear, although judging from the perfectly audible gasp that leaves Athena and Pearl and the way Justice and Trucy suddenly shift, he was the only one to know just how bad the situation was.

"I understand. What of his left leg?"

The surgeon reaches up to scratch her head through the surgical cap. "We had to amputate there as well. Everything beneath the knee had to go. The gunshot wound seems to have let quite a lot of the toxin out, though. With the knee joint intact, he'll find it easier to walk with a good prosthetic leg. There could be a solution even for the missing arm: robotic limbs have come a long way since 2020. All in all, I believe he'll be able to lead a normal life."

Blackquill holds back a bitter laugh. A normal life? This woman clearly has no idea of who she's just treated. She'll be told as much soon, no doubt – but right now Blackquill has no reason nor energy to explain it to her. He simply nods.

"I see. Thank you."

"Can we see him?" Athena asks, only to be met with a slightly disapproving gaze.

"Not for a couple of days at the very least. He barely escaped death and he's extremely debilitated. His body went through some terrible damage and an enormous amount of stress. We'll let him know you asked when he awakens, but no visits for now."

"But-!"

"That's fine," Blackquill cuts her off, and nods at the surgeon. "Do tell him we'll be seeing him when he's recovered enough to hold up through a visit. Tell him he has my thanks. And most of all," he adds, his voice growing harsher, "tell him that next time he attempts to cross the Styx without my permission I'll personally drag him back and slice off his remaining limbs."

The surgeon's eyebrows go almost all the way up to her hairline. "… Most people simply send a 'get better soon' card, you know."

For the first time in a while, Blackquill smirks. "Don't concern yourself. Tell him precisely that. He'll understand all that there is to understand."


	18. Gone

_A/N: Man, only one chapter after this one and it's over! Saying that this whole thing got longer than expected would be one huge understatement, but hey. No regrets, though I like to think I made people regret reading this several times over! _

_Thanks a lot to Keyanna for proofreading!_

* * *

"Aww, c'mon! Be a good friend and help me out!"

"You know I cannot."

"Pretty pretty please?"

There is a long sigh on the other end of the line. "I told you, my hands are tied," Deep Throat – whose real code name is Proteus, but it's not like the Yatagarasu has ever used it; Deep Throat is funnier – says for what's likely the fourth time. "He's compromised beyond repair. You're not in a much better position, truth be told, but at least you were not caught and won't need to be terminated."

"Protocol says I should be."

"Protocol can be fiddled with if need be."

The Yatagarasu grins. "Aww, see? You like me!"

"You make for a decent challenge at Fruit Ninja. Speaking of which, I beat your new best score last night."

"Hey, don't change the subject now! We're supposed to be talking about my partner in crime here. Don't try to pretend he's not your problem."

"He's a dead man walking even if he survives the toxin. He'll have to be dealt with; a fatal mistake in medication, most likely, for which a nurse will take the fall. Forget all about him," Proteus says, their voice flat. "You should hope he dies quickly at any rate. If he talks, if he tells them whom you two have been working for, you'll be at risk of being terminated as well. And there would be nothing I could do. I'm not _that_ high up. Yet."

"He won't," the Yatagarasu says, her voice a bit colder now. "Do you think he's stupid? He knows that would be his death sentence for sure."

"Death is his only option now, no matter by whose hand. He may try to strike a deal in exchange for his life, or something else. That's what he did when he told the police all about his organization. Desperate men resort to desperate measures. He'll have no reason not to talk."

The Yatagarasu sets her jaw. "Yes. Yes, he will."

Proteus sighs. "Very well. Entertain me. What reason would that be?" they ask.

She pauses for only a moment before replying, her voice quiet. "… Me."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Don't go faking hearing problems now. You heard me. He knows that I was recognized, and he knows that they _know_ we work together. If he talks, he'll completely compromise me as well. And he won't do it."

There is a moment of silence before Proteus speaks again. "And you think he'd stay silent for your sake?"

"Yes," she says, and smiles a little bitterly at the memory of Byrne Faraday and Detective Badd telling her to stay safe when she pretended to take on an especially tough case in court, at the memory of Lang's leap for her when he shielded her from Badd's bullet. "Isn't that what partners do?"

"You seem to have forgotten who you're talking about."

"I'm talking about the person who lay down his _life_ to save that of Athena Cykes."

"_And_ breached the protocol in doing so."

"Yup. So you do it now, and we're all even. Wouldn't that be great?"

There is another long sigh from the other side of the line. "Very well. Let me be clear with you," Proteus finally says. "I'm not _against_ sparing the Phantom's life. He's caused us no small amount of trouble for a few years, I must admit. But, both on account of the excellent work he's done in the past two years and the fact that he was able to partner with you without _murdering_ you, you could say I've grown to admire him."

She grins. "Great! I think he's taken, but you can still get him out and ask for an autograph. And who knows, one thing may lead to another…"

Proteus keeps talking as though she said nothing at all. "Let's say, for the sake of argument, that he truly says nothing when they'll obviously try to squeeze him like a lemon for information. Let's say I can try to use some leverage where it matters to have his life spared – he'll _still_ be sent to the gallows as soon as he's recovered, missing limbs or not."

"Could be the electric chair, too. Or lethal injection."

"Whichever suits you best. What I'm _saying_ is, how do you suggest we retrieve him without them realizing he's been working for us this whole time? Staging a fake death and an escape would be nowhere as easy after the stunt we pulled last time. They're bound to be much warier this time around. They won't let us simply wheel him out."

Even though she knows Proteus cannot see her, the Yatagarasu rolls her eyes.

"Are you kidding me? You work for the _government of United States_! Am I supposed to believe you can't even come up with an excuse to pick up an international spy? Just drop by when his condition is better and say some bullshit about information he has, about classified crap, about him being a person of interest or something! You can make anyone with the _terrorist_ tag on them disappear into thin air like it's nothing and no one questions it – can't you do it this time as well?"

This time, her words are met with a brief laugh. "You make it sound dreadfully easy. Someone is _bound_ to ask questions this time."

"So? You'll pull your classified information act, we can neither confirm nor deny, blah blah. You can say it's all about Outis, the Phantom knew him and no one else has a clue about who he was. Couldn't you make a believable excuse out of that?"

Her question is met with a brief silence. "… We might," Proteus finally says, and the Yatagarasu is relieved to see the opening. She has to press on, she thinks, she has to press on _now_.

"He'll keep his mouth shut about you, and there will be nothing linking him to the government," the Yatagarasu says. "_C'mon_, Deep Throat. I've _literally_ just saved a shipload of people. Give me a hand here!"

A pause. "Very well. I can't promise anything, but I'll give this a try. Don't count too much on it."

She smiles. "Aww, you're the best! Remind me to give you a kiss if we ever meet in person!"

"In that unlikely event, a handshake will suffice," Proteus replies, a hint of amusement in their voice before they turn serious once more. "There is a catch, though."

She cannot say she didn't expect to hear that. "Is it too late to tell you I don't jump out of birthday cakes?"

"… I'd ask what kind of lateral thinking led you to that conclusion, but I'm not sure I wish to know how your mind works."

"Pwwhh—hahahaha! Just kidding! Don't be so dour all the time! So, what's the catch, Deep Throat?"

"You'll _never_ call me Deep Throat again."

The Yatagarasu blinks. "What, that's it?"

"That's it."

She pouts. "Aww, but Deep Throat is more fun."

"You have a questionable idea of fun. Do you want my help or not?"

"Okay, okay! But only if it works. If it doesn't, I'll call you Deep Throat for the rest of your days."

"Or for the rest of yours," is the deadpan reply.

"Huhu, is that a threat?"

"I can neither confirm nor deny threatening you with death."

"Hahahaha! Hey, so even _you_ have a sense of humor!"

"If the situation calls for it. Have we got a deal?"

Her grin is so wide it threatens to split her face in two. "Yup, we do. Hey, Proteus? Thanks."

Proteus scoffs. "Save your thanks for later. I can't guarantee success," is all they say before ending the call.

* * *

It takes three days before Blackquill is allowed to see him; three days in which he barely leaves the hospital, despite Athena's pleas for him to stay at the hotel room with the rest of them at night.

He has received near constant updates, and from the first day it was fairly good news – he's had moments of consciousness almost from the start, is responding well to treatment and no trace of toxin is left in his body – but Blackquill knows he won't be able to rest until he's seen him, talked to him. Athena shares the sentiment, too, and she's spent most of the past three days with him in the hospital – psychologically profiling some of the undercover Interpol agents that kept an eye on the place when especially bored. Still, she isn't there when he receives the news: she's at the docks for a few hours, to see her employer and friends off to the ship.

Phoenix Wright and Maya Fey both arrived the day after Thessaly reached the docks, looking a little green in the face – something to do with the driving of the friend who gave them the lift, one Larry Butz – and, unsurprisingly enough, worried sick despite having been told that all of them were fine. There were some rather amusing moments, he has to admit, when Fey and Wright clung to Pearl and Trucy respectively while firing out questions and exclamations of relief at Justice and Athena without even catching their breath. It took a while for them to be entirely reassured.

It took even more time for Wright to give his daughter permission to board on the cruise ship that would be taking Thessaly's passengers back to their cruise route the following day. They were discreet enough to discuss it out of Blackquill's earshot, but Athena later told him that she argued that the new ship would be safe, that she had a contract and that she was still expected to perform. With Athena and Justice backing her up, suggesting that Wright and Fey should take their place on board, she eventually won the argument. They're boarding right now, most likely, with Athena and Justice to see them off.

Blackquill is sitting in the waiting room, entertaining the thought of having a stroll outside and watch Taka flying, when a nurse approaches him. "Simon Blackquill?"

He stands. "Yes?" he asks, but he already knows what it is about. It can only possibly be about one thing.

"You can see the patient now. Please, bear in mind that he's still very weak and on heavy medication. If he gives any sign of discomfort, please leave him and alert the medical personnel."

Blackquill nods, thinking back of the last time he was given such instructions – when the Phantom was poisoned and just barely been snatched from death's maw. He remembers all too well how on that occasion the Phantom briefly reverted to Bobby Fulbright's persona. Will it happen this time as well? "I will," is all he finally says, and as he follows her he pulls his cell phone out of his pocket to send out a quick message.

Athena made him promise he'd let her know if anything happened while she was out of the hospital, and her wrath is not something Blackquill is looking forward to facing.

* * *

"Wait, you _knew_ it? You all knew it and no one _told_ me?"

"Us, and Mr. Edgeworth, and Ema and Gumshoe, and Larry and Blackquill and—"

"_Edgeworth_ knew it and _I _didn't?"

With Mr. Wright's voice at least a couple of octaves higher than usual, keeping a straight face is impossible; both Athena and Apollo are utterly failing at it, really, and Maya is just laughing. Trucy's grin is so wide that her cheeks just _must_ be hurting, an arm around Pearl's shoulders.

Pearl is the only one who looks embarrassed, really, her cheeks a bright pink. "Sorry, Mr. Nick. I wanted to tell you before, but Trucy said—"

"I _told_ you I was seeing someone!" Trucy says. Her grin, if possible, gets wider. "I just didn't tell you _who_."

"And you left me wondering for _four months_? _Why_?"

"To watch you squirm a bit, Nick!" Maya says, a hand still in front of her mouth to stifle a laugh. "You were – heehe! – you were stressing out so much and asking all those questions about what kind of unknown boy she was seeing! It was just too much fun! You kept thinking up the worst scenarios, and your hair was this close to going gray!"

"And I never even said it was a _boy_!" Trucy quips. "You did that all on your own, daddy!"

"I... _you_...!" Mr. Wright sputters, causing Apollo to laugh.

"She got you there," he says, but his grin fades a bit when Mr. Wright turns his attention to him and Athena.

"_You_ were on to this, weren't you? Hope you're ready to clean the toilet a thousand times each!"

"Hey, hold it!" Athena says, holding up her hands. "Moment mal! I was bound by the girl code – a girl can't go telling older men another girl's secrets! If you want to blame someone, blame Apollo!"

"Yeah, she's ri- wait, _what_?"

"_Older men?_"

"Well, you're a man, _and_ you're older..."

"OBJECTION! That's- that's a misleading statement!"

Maya pats his shoulder. "Careful, Nick. Mind your blood pressure," she says innocently, and Mr. Wright groans, letting his arm fall and slumping his shoulders.

"Uuugh. I hate all of you so much right now," he mutters.

"... You're not angry, right, Mr. Nick? About... about Trucy being my special someone?"

Pearl's voice sounds oddly small, and it causes most grins to fade – including Trucy's. Pearl is biting on her thumb, as always when nervous, and worriedly looking at Mr. Wright.

"Of course he's not!" Trucy exclaims, sounding outraged at the mere thought.

"You're the best special someone of all! Right, Nick?" Maya adds, eying Mr. Wright – who, on the other hand, looks nothing short of stunned by Pearl's question.

"Wha...? No, no, I'm not! Honest! I just... I couldn't pick anyone better, Pearly. Really," he says, and smiles at her before narrowing his eyes at Trucy. "I just wish a _certain _someone would tell me instead of keeping me guessing on this _someone_ she was seeing."

Trucy sticks out her tongue at him. "A _special_ someone," she points out, and Pearl blushes.

"Aww," Athena says, and she's about to add something else when her cell phone suddenly beeps. She takes it out of her pocket, and one look at the screen is enough to make her entirely forget what she was even about to say in the first place. All she can focus on is Simon's message.

_He is awake and aware. We have permission to see him. I'm going. Return as soon as you receive this._

* * *

Blackquill isn't surprised by the sense of déjà vu as he approaches the bed LaRoche is resting on: he looks much like he did when Blackquill visited him after the poisoning, which is something he expected. Both have been near-death experiences, after all, even though the covers pulled up to LaRoche's neck hide his mutilations from view. The most striking difference, aside from the different face, is the lack of hair. LaRoche's hair was so matted with blood that apparently it had to be shaved off, and the fuzz that's barely starting to grow back is unmistakably blond. His _own_ hair color.

The sound of Blackquill's steps causes LaRoche to open his eyes, the pale blue eyes Blackquill remembers so well, and turn his head to look at him. He stays silent until Blackquill is standing beside the bed, towering over him without a word of his own.

"… Prosecutor Blackquill," LaRoche finally speaks, his voice hoarse. It's obvious he hasn't been using it much lately, and the medication he's on is making him groggy. But he's awake and aware, and it is enough.

"LaRoche," he greets him back. There is a chair next to the bed LaRoche is lying on, and Blackquill sits on it. "You have seen better days, I'd say."

The man's lips curl in a faint smile. "I've had worse ones as well," he mutters. "By all accounts, I should have died."

"By all accounts, you should have died numerous times."

"Yes, I know. This is getting ridiculous," LaRoche says with a weak sigh. "How... how is Cykes?"

The question causes Blackquill to smile faintly. He's barely alive, barely recovering, and his first question is about Athena. "She is perfectly fine, if upset by what happened."

"Good," LaRoche murmurs, and draws in a long breath. "The arm is gone, isn't it? I feel nothing from the shoulder down, but I can't move to get the sheets off. My right arm is strapped down."

"Didn't the doctors tell you?"

LaRoche weakly shakes his head. "I think… I think the medical personnel has been instructed not to speak to me unless necessary. They won't tell me anything. So, is it… it is gone, isn't it?"

Blackquill nods. He sees no reason to lie. "Yes. And so is your leg. They were able to let you keep the knee joint. It will make it easier for you to walk with a prosthetic leg, or so they claim."

That gets a brief laugh out of LaRoche, one that dies down in a fit of coughing. "Walk," he repeats, breathless. "That's… that's rich. Like there's anywhere for me to go from here, except six feet under."

Blackquill doesn't waste time arguing that point. They both know that, after recovery, LaRoche's days are numbered. "You said the same thing two years ago."

LaRoche closes his eyes. "I know. I'm—"

"Sorry, yes. You made as much abundantly clear. I care not for your words."

"Blackquill—"

"Silence," Blackquill cuts him off. "I care not for your words because your actions have spoken loud enough," he says, and allows his voice to soften. "You have saved her life."

LaRoche's eyes open, and he stares at him for a few moments before he speaks quietly. "I owed her too much to let it happen. And..." he pauses and gives a weak chuckle. "Hell knows how much I wouldn't have wanted to face your wrath should she die. An equally painful death would have been on the menu, I'd wager."

"Hmph. On that, you're not wrong," Blackquill concedes. "Still, you have her gratitude. And mine."

"I deserve neither."

"That's our decision to make. Not yours."

LaRoche looks away, but he doesn't try to argue. There is a brief silence, one Blackquill doesn't expect to last. And, in fact, it does not.

"… She saved me first. I murdered her mother, and she still helped me. Made me _someone_."

"Yes," Blackquill agrees. Without Athena, Robert LaRoche would have never emerged from the shell the Phantom was. It's as though she brought him back from the dead. "She did. If you wish to thank her, or to beg her for forgiveness you already received, you'll have your chance to do so shortly. She's on her way here. She was... concerned."

LaRoche gives a small chuckle. "I supposed we had best get this over with now, then. I get the feeling the Interpol will be keeping me company through the recovery. They must want information, no doubt."

"You may be rid of them faster if you give them what they want."

"I'll tell them all they wish to know on what I found out about YggdraCorp and its dealings."

"What of your current _employer_? What of the ones who aided your escape?"

"That's something I'll have to take to my grave, I'm afraid. I can't speak of it."

"Not even in exchange for leniency?"

"We both know leniency is unlikely. Even if it was a possibility, speaking would be a death sentence of its own. There is no corner on Earth where I'd be safe from them. Not to mention that I'd put my partner in a dire situation. I owe her my life as well."

"... I see."

"She hasn't been found, has she?"

"To Agent Lang's chagrin, no. I suppose she's found her way back to whatever organization you work for now. I can't tell if Lang is worried she may be back for you, or if he's hoping she will."

"If that is his hope, he had best give up on it," LaRoche says with a tired smile, barely tilting his head to his left, towards his missing arm. "I'm compromised beyond repair. Unless _they_ happen to need someone to take the identity of a double amputee, they have no use for me. And she couldn't possibly hope to get me out of here without their support. This time they can't simply pretend to carry away a dead body."

"So it _was_ this new employer of yours that helped you fake your execution."

"Yes. They decided I could still be useful, apparently, and offered me a way out. Death... scared me too much for me not to take the chance. As long as I could be of use, as long as I allowed Robert LaRoche to die and left his facebehind for good, I knew I could still live."

Blackquill nods, his gaze fixed on LaRoche's new face. His eyes truly are the only thing left untouched, although the old scar, the _bullet_ scar, still shows despite the clear attempt at making it less noticeable. "Whose face is this?"

"No one's. It's a face with no name nor history attached to it. Just in case I was ever caught and someone took off whatever mask I was wearing."

"I see," Blackquill says, and he finds himself hesitating for the briefest moment before asking something he's been wondering in the past couple of days. "... Were you already wearing Harrison Fire's mask when I spoke to him? Was it _you_?"

LaRoche shuts his eyes. "Forgive me," he rasps, and that's enough of an answer to Blackquill. All of a sudden, the man's odd behavior during their meeting makes sense – and to think that back then he had mistaken it for shock!

"What happened to the real Harrison Fire?"

"Detained, as far as I know, along with the one whose identity was taken by the Yatagarasu. I don't know where," LaRoche murmurs, and opens his eyes. "... Don't pity them too much. They knew YggdraCorp was using humans as guinea pigs. They knew people were dying because of it, and still went along with it. I'm no better than either of them, but what happened to them is not undeserved."

Blackquill's eyes narrow. "No one should be detained without a fair trial."

"The stakes were too high. We needed to find out what they were working on. We needed to know everything about YggdraCorp, and-" LaRoche trails off with a hoarse noise and shivers. He licks his lips, and Blackquill only now realizes how dry and cracked they are when he speaks. "Water," he manages, turning his eyes to his right. On the nightstand there is a small bottle of water, and a still damp handkerchief.

Fully knowing that LaRoche is being nourished by IV drip and isn't supposed to actually drink, Blackquill does what he assumes the nurses have been doing: he wets the handkerchief with water and presses it on LaRoche's lips. He says nothing as he feels LaRoche parting his lips to suck some water off the fabric; it's not much, but it may be enough to make his mouth feel less dry.

"Thank you," he manages when Blackquill finally pulls the handkerchief away to put it back on the nightstand along with the bottle.

_Thank you, Simon_.

"Hmph. You can keep your thanks," Blackquill mutters. He sits back and reaches to slip a hand under the covers, to grasp LaRoche's remaining hand. Cold fingers weakly hold it back, but LaRoche's faint smile fades when Blackquill speaks again. "… That man, Outis. Who was he? I know nothing past what Athena heard, that he was the one to shoot you and your friend. But there must be more to it."

LaRoche's jaw clenches, and for a moment Blackquill thinks he's not going to answer. But he does speak, moments later, his voice somewhat distant. "He's the man who recruited me," he says. "The one who came to my apartment when I was still a killer for hire. I told you about that day, haven't I?"

Blackquill nods. "You have."

"I… I forgot most things about him, in time. His teachings stayed, but not much else."

"His teachings?"

"He personally supervised my training. He had a different name, then, and a different face, much like myself. His voice was different as well. I didn't recognize him until he decided to let me _know_ who he was."

"He seems to have had an unhealthy fixation on you."

"He did. Sounds familiar?" LaRoche grins weakly, but his attempt at humor is met with an unamused look.

"If you wish to retain the use of your remaining limbs, you _shall_ refrain from comparing me to that eel."

A small chuckle escapes LaRoche. "Heh. I have… almost missed your threats," he says before he resumes speaking about Outis. "He… used to say I was his greatest creation, which I suppose is why my downfall never sat right with him. I was his masterpiece. But I assumed he simply referred to the fine work he did while training me whenever he said that. I had no idea that he… he literally created me. Or destroyed me, depending on which way you look at it."

LaRoche's voice shakes, and Blackquill squeezes his hand tightly. His thumb brushes over the back of it, over the scar Athena gave him so long ago. "He did neither," he says harshly. "He never _created_ anything, nor did he have the power to destroy you. He could only take away everything that was _you_ for a time. But you took it back, all of it. Including a sense of humor I fail to appreciate."

For some reason, that causes LaRoche to give a sound that sounds halfway between a sigh and a chuckle. "And to think the Yatagarasu failed to appreciate the _lack_ of it."

Thinking back of the woman's obnoxious laugh, Blackquill can't help but inwardly admit LaRoche's questionable sense of humor – no more questionable than his own, truth be told – is more bearable than hers.

Still, LaRoche's amusement is short-lived. When he speaks again, his voice is suddenly filled with raw pain. "… He knew. Outis. _Umber_. The whole time he trained me, he _knew_ we had already met. I couldn't know it, but he did, and he said _nothing_. He even asked about my scar, several times, and when I couldn't remember he would... He was the one who shot me, he murdered Seymour, and I never imagined-" LaRoche trails off and shuts his eyes. A few tears escape him from the corners of his eyes to slide down his temples and onto the pillow. "He played me like a violin, and I never knew. Is this… is it…"

"Silence," Blackquill finds himself saying. Something about LaRoche's tears never fails to stir a painful sensation in his chest. LaRoche is not one to weep for anything short of pure agony, physical or emotional. Blackquill's free hand reaches to brush his tears away. "That man is dead. You have no reason to—"

"Is this how you felt when you knew the truth about… about Fulbright? Is _this_ what I did to you when I took _everything_ from you and then played you for a fool?"

The question catches Blackquill unprepared, causing him to freeze, hand in mid-air. All of a sudden, he finally realizes what it is that's bothering LaRoche: not so much the betrayal he was subject to, but the realization of what he must have put Blackquill through when Fulbright's mask came off and the truth was revealed. He may have regained a fair measure of empathy along with his memories and emotions, but this truly is the first time he's had to experience what he put others through. What he put _Blackquill_ through, when he murdered his mentor and later lied to him for a year, knowing the truth but never telling him.

And Blackquill can't bring himself to lie to reassure him. It is an ugly truth, but it's the truth and Blackquill has long since learned that there's no escaping it. "… I suppose it is, yes. With the difference that I trusted Fulbright more than I assume you could possibly trust that man. And I trusted you, later. Before you escaped," he says. But, even as he utters those words, he keeps his grip on LaRoche's hand firm.

LaRoche keeps his eyes screwed shut, and chokes back a sob. "Blackquill, I'm-"

"I know," Blackquill silences him. "Spare your breath. Don't waste what little liquid you have left in you."

LaRoche swallows and draws in and out a few deep breaths, and a minute later he seems far calmer. When he finally opens his eyes again, they're barely damp. He opens his mouth to speak again, but he never gets to: the door opens suddenly before he can even make a sound, and they both turn to see who is it.

Blackquill isn't surprised in the slightest to see Athena in the door frame, panting as though she just ran up all the flights of stairs leading there – which she probably did, now that Blackquill thinks about it. He wouldn't be surprised at all.

* * *

When he first hears the door slamming open, LaRoche's first thought is that someone must have come to end him; his second thought is that Blackquill may be in danger of sharing his fate just for being there and that he won't allow it, _can't_ allow it. He draws in a sharp breath, ready to scream to draw the Interpol's attention or that of anyone who may hear – because he's restrained and _crippled_ and there is nothing else he can do – but, the instant he turns, it's immediately clear that there will be no need for him to scream.

The person standing in the doorway is Athena Cykes.

_She's on her way here. She was... concerned._

"... Miss Cykes," he rasps. It's not much to say, nor is it much of a greeting, but she doesn't seem to mind.

"... Hey," she says, and smiles, drawing in a deep breath; her hand is resting above her heart. She takes a few steps towards him and Blackquill. "So, uh… How are you feeling?"

LaRoche allows himself a weak smile. "Alive, if anything. I… apologize for making you worry."

Cykes scowls. It's such a quick change that LaRoche is taken aback. "Worry?" she repeats, her hands balling into fists as she covers what little distance was left between them with quick steps. "_Worry?_ I'll wring your _neck_ next time you try to die on me! I'll wring the neck of anyone who ever tries to die _for_ me _again_!"

The Phantom opens his mouth to say that it wasn't about her at all, that it was for Blackquill's sake he decided to keep her alive – but he finds himself unable to. It wouldn't be truthful: it was for her sake as much as it was for Blackquill's own, and he won't deny it. After all that's happened, she deserves nothing less than the truth from him. "You wouldn't have been in that situation if it wasn't for me. It was… only fair," he says.

That much is true: if it hadn't been for him, if it hadn't been for her mother's murder, she and Blackquill both would have very different lives right now – one without the pain of the loss, one where seven years were never lost, one where no phantom loomed over their lives. One where they still had a mother and a mentor with them. But he had taken her from both of them. A single thrust of the blade, and her life was over.

"_A bullet to the head was enough for him_."

And Cykes had seen him: a child too terrified to think when she threw herself at him with that utility knife. She had been fast, but not fast enough to catch anything but the back of his hand before she lost consciousness.

"_You tried to run, but couldn't go far. You were fast, but not fast enough_."

He remembers clearly standing above her unconscious form, his hand dripping blood – evidence, he thought back then – and thinking that she had seen him, that killing her as well would be the most logical step. He couldn't tell, back then, that trauma would make her forget what she had seen for years. Still, he didn't kill the defenseless child lying at his feet – a decision whose logic he couldn't comprehend, at the time.

_The man brings something up, holding it before Robb's face, and it's with a sudden flash of clarity that Robb can tell it's a gun – a gun aimed straight at his head._

"_Of course, I meant to kill you... but you were harder to kill than your friend was, apparently."_

… Perhaps he can understand now. He can understand all too well – but it's too late, much too late.

_How much is remorse worth when what you have taken is something you can never give back?_

"Don't give me that!" Cykes is saying above him, clearly unaware of his thoughts. "Will the _two_ of you stop making up excuses on how it's somehow okay to get yourselves killed for- Wait, what? No, wait! Don't cry!" she exclaims, surprise replacing any trace of anger in her voice.

"LaRoche?" Blackquill's voice reaches him next, sounding slightly alarmed, but he doesn't open his eyes to face either of them. He can't even raise the arm he has left to shield his face: he can only keep his eyes shut and lie there, tears rolling down his temples, more vulnerable than he's ever been.

How _can_ they not hate him? He was like Outis to them, he was _just like him_ – and the fact they're not showing that hatred against him, the fact they were _worried_ for him, somehow cuts deeper than anything else before. It's illogical and pathetic, but most of all it's painful.

"Hey. What happened to the apology for making me worry?" Cykes' voice reaches him. A hand grasps his remaining one, fingers too small to belong to Blackquill intertwining with his. "You're doing just that now."

"You shouldn't be worried," he rasps. "You should wish me dead as much as I wished _him_ dead. It makes no sense. You make no sense. I don't understand, I never did, I-" he trails off with a choked-back sob. There is a brief silence, neither Cykes nor Blackquill speaking, then it's Cykes who breaks the silence.

"... But I did. I didn't even know who or what I should hate, but I hated you. For a time I hated you so much I was afraid of what I could do," Cykes finally speaks. "When I first asked you why you had tried to have me convicted for Clay's murder, black Psyche-locks appeared. Forcing such locks open could permanently damage one's soul, and I knew it... but for a moment I wanted to go on. I wanted to do it," she adds, and her voice trembles. "But I couldn't. It wasn't _me_. And I... I didn't want to let you change that. You had taken so much from me already. Giving in would have felt like... like letting you win," she adds, but even as she speaks she gives his hand a gentle squeeze. "After that… well. Stuff happened, you know. I may want to wring your neck for doing something so stupid, but I'm also kinda grateful you saved my life. Even if you knew it would cost your own, and that it would _hurt_."

"I don't deserve your—"

"I _told_ you it's not your decision to make, LaRoche," Blackquill speaks up, his voice harsh. LaRoche opens his eyes to look up at him through the veil of tears. "We have been through this. You may feel undeserving as you wish, but it's _ours_ to give. You don't get a say in it."

"Yeah, what he said. It's our call. Deal with it," Cykes adds with a feeble grin. Her thumb brushes over the back of his only hand, and LaRoche is acutely aware of the scar there, the one she left on him as a terrified child. "Just… don't worry about it. Try to get better," she adds, but her voice is suddenly a bit less firm. She must be perfectly aware of the fact that there is hardly any future for him.

_Promise you won't let them kill you._

LaRoche needs to swallow the knot in his throat. "I… Cykes, I—" he starts, only to be cut off by a knock on the door. The nurse in the doorframe looks almost apologetic.

"I'm sorry, but you should leave. A longer visit may tire the patient too much."

"... Very well," Blackquill says, and looks down at LaRoche. "We'll see you again as soon as we receive permission to. Don't waste your energy weeping. You know better that that," he says, and turns to leave.

Cykes gives his hand one last squeeze before letting go of it. "See you later," she murmurs. LaRoche shuts his eyes, unable to even look at her, and gives no answer. He doesn't open his eyes until their steps have faded, until the door closes again.

He doesn't know that they won't be able to visit him again.

* * *

"What kind of claptrap is _this_?"

Simon's voice is loud enough to make Apollo wince, let alone her with her sensitive hearing. Still, it seems to have no effect whatsoever on the person standing before him – someone with dark eyes and hair, wearing a black suit and an impassive expression, nothing in their body or face giving any indication at all of their sex or age. They're not much taller than Apollo and Simon is literally towering over them, but there is no trace of fear in their voice or posture. They're not intimidated at all, and it shows.

"This is no, as you put it, claptrap," they reply tightly, chin tilted upwards and hands folded behind their back. There is something militaristic in their voice and stance. "The spy known as the Phantom – or Robert LaRoche, as you will – is a person of interest with valuable information. Therefore my men and I are here to take him into custody. As we are entirely authorized to do, as Agent Lang can explain to you."

Simon immediately turns to Lang, eyes livid. Lang is avoiding his gaze, teeth bared as though in a silent snarl. It looks as though he likes the situation no better than Simon. "And by whose authorization?" he asks.

Lang shoots the person in the black suit a furious glare. "That of your accursed government."

"The government?" Apollo repeats, surprise plain in his voice. Athena cannot say she expected it, but she's not really surprised, either. She still remembers how the government was involved in the hasty cover-up of the HAT-1 sabotage, and how said cover up kept her mother's murder from being investigated as thoroughly as it should have. Had it not been for that interference, then perhaps someone would have viewed the security tape showing the Phantom leaving the crime scene, and Simon would have never-

"The government, yes. _Your_ government, as Agent Lang found fitting to remind you," is the smooth reply. "Not that I need to give any explanations to you – this is not Los Angeles, after all. We're well beyond your jurisdiction. Besides, considering how easily he could escape your custody, I daresay it's best for everyone if we handle this from now on. As I already mentioned, the information he holds is extremely valuable. From this moment on, everything about him is strictly classified information. You'd do well to forget about him."

Simon scoffs. "He won't talk if that's not his desire," he snaps. "And he made it very clear that it's _not_."

His words are met with an empty smile. "We have means to make terrorists talk, Prosecutor Blackquill. He will tell us all we need to know and more. Fear not, we won't be keeping him with us one moment longer than necessary. We haven't forgotten what sentence he escaped. Once he's told us everything, he'll be promptly executed for his crimes. Your department will be sent his remains so that you can put that empty grave to use."

Simon grinds his teeth, but there is nothing more he can do or say... and Athena can't say anything, either, because she's too busy focusing on what she just heard – _discord_. It's weak, almost entirely hidden, but not hidden quite well _enough_.

"Now, I believe this ends our pleasant talk," Black Suit says, and turns to leave without another word.

"... I'm sorry, hawk lawyer. My hands are tied," Agent Lang mutters, and leaves with quick steps before Simon can say anything. Not that he tries to speak: he stands on the spot, gaze locked dead ahead of him, hands balled into tight fists. Athena glances at Apollo, who still seems rather taken aback by what's going on.

"... Hey. Can you give us a minute?" she asks. She doesn't really like keeping anything from him, but... with how he feels about the Phantom, telling him about her suspicions may not be the best thing.

"I... yeah, sure," he says, and walks away a little awkwardly. When he's some distance away, Athena steps forward and reaches for Simon's sleeve.

"Simon. Don't react to what I'm about to tell you, okay?"

That sure gets his attention, and his gaze shifts to her. "What is it?"

"That person. They were lying," she says, her voice very quiet to keep anyone else from hearing her.

To his credit, Simon lets little to nothing show at the revelation. When he speaks, his voice is just as quiet – his words for her ears alone. "Did they lie about working for the government?"

"No. I think that was the truth. But that whole thing about making him talk, and then about executing him... there was discord right there. It was a _lie_."

* * *

"Out, all of you – that's an _order_."

LaRoche is brought back to awareness by the sound of footsteps and orders being barked. He opens his eyes to see a couple of nurses being escorted out of his room by men wearing black suits; groggy as his mind is, he can still tell who they are. It seems that they're going to end him sooner than expected.

He shuts his eyes and thinks back of his promise to Seymour. It was only a dream, certainly, a vivid hallucination, but it felt so real it feels like he truly spoke to him, truly made him that promise.

_I'm sorry, Seymour. I never stood a chance of keeping it._

"Well, well. Look who the underworld has barfed back up."

LaRoche's eyes snap open as soon as the familiar voice reaches him. He looks up to see a woman standing over him, wearing the same suit as that of the government officials he's seen before. Her face is not familiar to him, but the grin she's giving him _is_. "Hey there, Ghost of the Space Center. Ready for a little trip?"

"... I take it you're not terminating me?"

Her grin widens. "Officially, you're a person of interest and everything about you is classified information from now on. You'll be held at an undisclosed location, executed as your sentence says when we're done with you, blah blah. No worries, they're not _really_ putting you down. Guess who managed to get Deep Throat to put in a word or two. Apparently, you're still a _prime asset_ or something. Or maybe they just couldn't find anyone else willing to work with me. So we're taking you back. Any objections?"

_Blackquill would have more than a few_, LaRoche wants to say, but he knows far too well that Blackquill is likely _already_ objecting, and that nothing he has to say will matter. For a moment all he can think of is Seymour, sitting before him with the crystal bird Robb gifted to him once in his hands. He shuts his eyes.

_Promise you won't let them kill you. At least promise you will try._

"Hey, don't fall asleep on me! Haven't you got anything to say? Like, dunno, thanks for saving my ass?"

LaRoche opens his eyes and looks up at the Yatagarasu, mind still slightly clouded by medication. He finds himself smiling weakly. "It's good to see you," is all he manages to rasp.

"Hah! I'd like to say the same, but you're not a pretty sight, really," she says, her grin widening, and her eyes shift on the bandages around the shoulder where his left arm used to be. "Hey, if you _do_ get you those robotic limbs, do I get to call you RoboRobb?"

"_No."_

"Sheesh. The usual spoilsport," she mutters, and she seems about to add something – but the next moment someone walks in, and the act is back on.

The Phantom closes his eyes, not bothering to listen to whatever they're telling each other. All he can think of is Blackquill, and how he's now forced to watch as he's taken away for good to be executed at a later date, unable to exchange another word with him. As far as the government is concerned, no one outside its intelligence – not Blackquill, not the Interpol and certainly not Cykes – will ever know whom he actually worked for, why he is really being taken, and that he's not truly headed for execution.

They will never know he's actually going to be allowed to live – like his previous faked execution, all over again. No one has any reason to suspect he's been working for the government in the past two years. Yet another fake death, another chance for those who lost a loved one because of him to be sated, another chance for Blackquill to move on. It makes sense. It sounds just as convenient as it did last time.

But it would still be a lie, and there are two people in this wretched world LaRoche will never lie to again.

_Promise you won't let them kill you. Promise me you won't be back until your time is really up._

_I'll try_, LaRoche thinks tiredly. _I'll try, birdbrain. But the choice won't be mine to make._


	19. Epilogue

_A/N: holy shit this is over. After over a year, it's really over. Damn._  
_More notes and thanks at the end of the chapter._

* * *

**Burgundine, Borginia. Eight months later.**

"Hey, Lames Bond. You sure took your time. Bet the waiters were starting to think I got stood up."

The Yatagarasu – who, for the occasion, is a blonde woman in her early thirties with blue eyes and slightly tan skin – grins up at him as he approaches the table she's sitting at. She got a bottle of wine while waiting, and has already poured herself a glass. A very expensive bottle of wine, but the Phantom isn't up to complain: the bill is unlikely to ever be paid, after all... and even if it was, it would be on the government of the United States.

"I wish being rid of you was so easy," he says, lips curling upwards for just one moment before he sits across the table and reaches for the menu. As he pretends to be taking a look at the starters, he shoots a glance over the Yatagarasu's shoulder to their target – a middle-aged man with an immaculate gray suit, sitting at the largest table in the room with several other associates. Among them are sitting what are obviously body guards; their kind is especially bad at looking like anything _else_, regardless how much they try.

"I see he spared no expenses," he says, glancing back down at the menu.

"Well, duh. We're in the best restaurant in all of Borginia, and the guy loves to flaunt how rich he is," the Yatagarasu says, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. "It sure is a fancy place to die."

"Hmm."

"... Is your brand new conscience giving you trouble? This one is far from a nice guy. He deserves to die more than most. Not as much as we do, but hey. Almost there."

The Phantom doesn't look up at her. "... That's hardly relevant either way. I have a mission. I'll go through with it," he says. He wouldn't kill this man if his death was not required; he would try to find a way around it to get his hands on what they need. But his death is required by a direct order, and that settles it. Whether or not it is deserved is something he doesn't know, and something he doesn't _have_ to know.

If the Yatagarasu thinks anything of it, she doesn't say. She merely changes subject. "Was the restaurant here already when you were a kid? I heard it's an old one."

"Yes. I stole some caviar from here once. As it turned out, I was allergic to it. I steered well away afterward."

"Pwwhhhfff-!"

"Not _here_," he hisses, kicking her slightly with his prosthetic leg. It's almost fascinating how well he can use it now; it works just as well as his real one.

To her credit, this time the Yatagarasu is able to muffle her laugh into a snicker that she quickly disguises as coughing. "Hehe! If you don't want me to laugh, stop being funny," she says. Still, her grin fades a bit when she looks back at him. "… So. How's being here again after all these years?"

The Phantom lets his gaze wander on the menu for a few more moments, looking for the right word to reply with. "Anticlimactic, I suppose. Almost nothing is how I remembered," he says. There is something that's still there, truth be told; a place he's going to pay a visit to the next day, before leaving the country. He feels like he has to. To pay his respects... and to retrieve something, if it's still there.

"Hu-uh. Still up for that trip down Memory Lane?"

"... Later, yes. At the moment, the mission is all that matters. Is everything ready?"

"Sure. He'll die the moment he guzzles down the amazingly expensive wine he ordered. I made sure to fix it. That, and his servings," she says. While the wine itself is not poisoned – the whole table is going to share it, and it would make for quite a bunch of sudden and very much unnecessary deaths – the food that man in particular has ordered was laced with a kind of poison meant to stay inactive until a specific, otherwise innocuous substance is added to the mix. One the Yatagarasu injected in the sealed bottle with a syringe.

Simply poisoning the food would have been easier, perhaps, but this is going to allow them to know precisely in what moment the poison is about to start working, and to be ready. The Phantom is ready to claim he's a doctor the moment the man collapses, and of course he'll make a show of trying to revive him. In the confusion that's sure to follow, it won't be difficult for him and the Yatagarasu to leave... and it will take some time for anyone to notice that the documents the man had on him are gone. They'll be on their way back to the States soon enough to hand in the documents, and then... then he'll see.

As though reading his thoughts, the Yatagarasu speaks again with a serious edge to her voice. "Once we're back in the States we should get a few days off. I can fiddle with your chip's signal to make it seem like you're with me for a while – it should give you about forty-two hours before they realize you're somewhere else. Are you _certain_ you want to do it?"

The Phantom clenches his jaw. "It is not about what I want. It's something I must do."

"Do you even realize how much it took to get them to keep you _alive_ in the first place?"

"And I'm grateful you went through the trouble. But it changes nothing."

"So this could be our last mission together."

"... It might be, depending on their judgment," he says, and she frowns before speaking again.

"Well, that would _blow_. You had better convince your ex not to get your ass arrested and be _back_."

_Promise me you won't be back until your time is really up_.

It takes the Phantom some effort to meet her gaze. "I cannot promise as much. But... I thank you for asking."

"Pfffftt-!" she snorts, and he holds back a sigh while she turns her laughter in another fit of coughing.

"Why do you feel the need to do that?"

"Haha! I can't help it! You're just so funny," she says, grinning. "I mean, _aww_. You're _moved_!"

"You know what? I take it back."

She blows him a kiss. "Too late. You know you like me."

"As I like caviar. I'm still allergic to it," he says drily, then something else catches his attention, and he narrows his eyes. "... They're taking the wine to his table," he says, once again focused on the mission, on what he'll have to do a minute from now. He's ready to play his part for what may be the last time.

After this is done and once he's retrieved what he needs to retrieve from the house he once shared with Seymour, he'll be ready to face whatever fate Simon Blackquill may see fit for him.

* * *

Nearly thirty years since the last time he set foot here, he remembers the house's layout like the back of his hand.

It wasn't always the case, of course: the memory of this house's existence has been buried in the most unreachable depths of his mind for a long time, along with everything else that was part of Robert LaRoche's life. Unreachable but never lost, not really, and he was able to reclaim it eventually, along with his name.

This place looks different from how it did back when he and Seymour lived in it; it was abandoned, then, though not a ruin as many other houses in the capital. It's obviously been renewed in the past, the walls fixed and roof rebuilt from scratch. There is a whole family of six living in it now, as the pictures on the walls show when he makes his way inside. But the layout has not changed, and neither has the flooring: it's made of quality wood, after all, and withstood the years of abandonment just fine. That's exactly what he hoped.

Safe in the knowledge the house's inhabitants won't be back for at least another hour, LaRoche walks upstairs unhurriedly. It is a large house that could become mercilessly cold through Borginian winters, but up in the attic he and Seymour chose as their bedroom – it never occurred to them to get a room each, even with all the rooms they had to pick from; it certainly didn't occur to Robb, who couldn't remember sleeping in any other place but the orphanage's dormitory – it wasn't bad once they had enough blankets and a heater they stole from a store. _He_ stole it, he recalls, while Seymour distracted the owner by pretending to be lost.

He was good at it, because he could cry at will just like Robb could, and he was thinner than him, which got people to pity him more easily. Robb always looked a bit too healthy to convincingly play the part of the poor little orphan, and as they grew older and he began to beef up it became clear that had to be Seymour's act. It feels like another lifetime and, in a way, it _is_. Sometimes it's almost hard to believe any of it was real – but it was, and LaRoche hopes to find a tangible proof that those years even happened.

That's why he's there, after all. With Seymour's grave unmarked and no way for him to find it, he thinks as he opens the hatch leading to the attic, this is his next best chance.

The attic isn't as neatly clean as the rest of the house, obviously enough: it's dusty and filled with old chests and discarded objects. It was almost entirely empty when they lived there, LaRoche thinks. With the mind's eye he can still see the old mattress and the heap of blankets where they used to sleep, under the skylight at the far end of the room. That spot isn't cluttered, thankfully: while he has time, there would be no point in wasting it digging through useless junk.

_It may not be there anymore. It's been almost thirty years. Maybe someone lifted the board and found it_.

The thought causes LaRoche's insides to clench, but he doesn't pause to think over it too much. He walks up to what he knows is the right spot without a hitch in his stride, then he kneels over the floor and presses his hands – both the real one and the prosthetic one, although they're hard to tell apart by just looking – on the boards. He presses against the end of each board, one after another, because it one of these, it _has_ to be.

And it is. There is a small creaking noise, and the other end of one of the boards rises slightly; it's no more than half an inch, but it is _enough_. LaRoche's heart seems to still for a moment.

_Someone probably took it. It's been so long. Too long._

LaRoche clenches his jaw, chases away the thought and reaches to lift the whole board. It comes off easily, just as easily as he remembered, and there it is – _all_ of it.

Seymour's books, covers stained and ruined and pages eaten by rats; his own slingshot, the one made of metal he was so proud of, the rubber band now chewed up as well; metal tins of canned food, dented and sealed closed as they left them. Their secret stash is now only a heap of broken things, much like their lives.

But there is something else, something the sunlight coming from the skylight is making glint even through the layers of dust that cover it, the very thing he's here for – the crystal bird he gifted Seymour on his thirteenth birthday. LaRoche's hand, his real one, reaches inside to take it. He wipes off some dust with a sleeve, and it's with some relief that he sees it's still whole, unlike everything else: a bird figure small enough to fit in a boy's cupped hands, sitting as though in the nest, wings folded and beak tilted upside.

_Hey, birdbrain! Look here! Look what I've got!_

_It's for you, stupid. Happy birthday and stuff_.

A lump in his throat warns him not to focus on the memory any further, and he puts the bird aside to focus his attention on Seymour's books instead. He has no plans of taking those away; in a way it feels more fitting for them to stay there. But on the other hand, there is time. Enough time for him to take one last look.

Most of the books are so ruined there is no telling what their covers once read; he can recognize a couple of them – Harper Lee's _To Kill a Mockingbird_ and Nietzsche's _Beyond Good and Evil._ He remembers how Seymour almost got caught while stealing them, and the bickering that had followed.

_To Kill a Mockingbird? This is just about the last thing I expected from you, birdbrain._

_It's not about killing birds, obviously. It's about a lawyer who––_

_Boring._

_Hey, let me finish! It's more than just that! It's about––_

_Booooring!_

"At least I have learned how to pronounce Friedrich Nietzsche's name," LaRoche hears himself murmuring, his voice a little strained. He – Robb – had been such an annoying, loud-mouthed, reckless boy he had to wonder why Seymour put up with him all the time. Come to think of it, he thinks with a hint of amusement, Robb had been rather similar to the Yatagarasu, in a way. Not that he was going to admit as much aloud.

LaRoche puts the books back in place, and that's when it catches his eye: a book with a black, blank cover, a chewed-up bookmark still sticking out of it. It's not one he recognizes, but he reaches to pull it out anyway, and opens it. The bookmarked page is badly damaged by humidity and rats, but he can tell it's a poem; he can read the author and title clearly enough.

_Robert Frost – The Exposed Nest._

"... Heh. Birds. I don't know what I was expecting," LaRoche says, his voice a little hoarse, and he squints to read what little is left of the text. Most of the first part is unreadable, but some parts of the mid-section and the ending can still be read... and as he goes through them, LaRoche could swear he can _hear_ Seymour's voice reading it to him a lifetime ago.

'_Twas a nest full of young birds on the ground/The cutter-bar had just gone champing over/(Miraculously without tasting flesh)/And left defenseless to the heat and light./You wanted to restore them to their right/Of something interposed between their sight/And too much world at once—could means be found_...

The next few lines are an unreadable mess, and LaRoche skips them without a second thought, chest aching.

_Made me ask would the mother-bird return/And care for them in such a change of scene/And might our meddling make her more afraid./That was a thing we could not wait to learn./We saw the risk we took in doing good/But dared not spare to do the best we could_...

LaRoche's eyes move to the last lines, and he doesn't even care that there is something falling from his face onto the page, further staining it. It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter at all.

_I haven't any memory—have you?— Of ever coming to the place again/To see if the birds lived the first night through/And so at last to learn to use their wings_.

It is a good thing that he has time, that the family living in the house won't be back for another hour or so, because for a while – for a long while – LaRoche can do nothing but weep. But that's fine; it feels like something he should have done a long time ago and, by the time the tears stop falling, he's feeling far better than he thought possible.

His eyes are still damp when he reaches into his pocket to pull out something – a piece of paper Blackquill gave to him once, a piece of paper he's not supposed to still possess but that he couldn't bring himself to get rid of after his fake execution: the copy of his certificate from the orphanage, the first proof he ever held that someone called Robert LaRoche even existed.

Only that he has no reason to cling to it anymore. He knows _precisely_ who he is, he thinks, and slips the folded paper on the bookmarked page before closing the book and putting it back. He takes the board and puts it back in place, to hide everything from view once again. No one else needs to see what's beneath that floor, after all; no one else has the _right_ to, he thinks, and reaches to take the crystal bird in his hands.

_Promise me you won't be back until your time is really up_.

"... I'll try, birdbrain. But if I fail, then it's all right. Whatever happens now, it will be all right."

* * *

"What complete _balderdash_."

Blackquill's snarl causes Taka to flap his wings briefly, taking his attention away from the papers he's been ready – the papers of an entirely botched trial he'll have to somehow try salvaging on Monday. The defendant is guilty, that much is certain, and he will not let him escape justice because of Detective Gumshoe's incompetence.

"I have to wonder how come that bumbling oaf is still employed," he mutters, putting down the papers and reaching to scratch Taka's head. "Hmph. If you had the gift of word, I'm certain you'd make a far more reliable investigation partner," he adds, and has to smile when Taka closes his eyes, clearly enjoying the attention. He doesn't need to _talk_ for them to understand each other, after all. On the other hand, that useless detective-

A sudden buzzing noise snaps Blackquill from his thoughts. The intercom, he realizes with no small amount of confusion – but who may it be? He's not expecting anyone, that's for certain.

"If it's yet another prankster, I'll cut them down without mercy," he mutters. It has happened a few times that some children rang everyone in the block before running away. But, as soon as he picks up the receiver and the small screen in the wall shows who's downstairs – a small precaution that cannot hurt in his line of work – he can see it's not the case. On the black-and-white screen he can see a grown man with a baseball cap whose visor hides most of his face, holding a large box.

"Sushi World delivery service," the man says through the intercom, causing Blackquill to frown.

"You must have the wrong address. I have ordered nothing."

"Is this Simon Blackquill?"

That causes Blackquill to pause, the receiver he was about to put back in place in mid-air. He brings it back to his ear. "... That is my name. However, I stand by what I said. I ordered nothing."

"Then perhaps someone else ordered it for you? It's all paid for. And I'm rather sure there's some of your favorite in here," the delivery man adds, and it's that last sentence that makes Blackquill still, his heart seemingly skipping a beat – because there is no reason, _none at all_, a stranger would have any idea of what's his favorite kind of sushi. He stares at the screen more intently. "... Look up. Look at the camera."

There is a moment of hesitation, then, without saying anything, the man _does_ look up – and, while it's not a face he knows, what the man says next is enough for him to know he's looking at a mask. "You should know by now a face is not to be trusted," he says quietly, and it's a voice he knows.

"... Tch. What a useless charade. I trust you know the way to my door," Blackquill replies, and presses the button to open the door without waiting for a reply. The screen goes blank, and he has a minute to recollect his thoughts – or try to, without much success – before the doorbell rings.

He throws the door open before the sound has even faded and there he is, standing right before him – not with the same face as last time he saw him, but there is LaRoche's own blond hair beneath the cap, and the familiar pale blue eyes looking back at him.

For one long moment, they stare at each other in silence. There is nothing showing on LaRoche's borrowed face, not one hint of what he may thinking, and Blackquill keeps his own face blank as well. His eyes shift from LaRoche's face to the Sushi World shirt he's wearing, to the arm holding the box – a left arm, certainly prosthetic – and then to the box itself.

"... Is there even any sushi in there?" he finds himself asking.

LaRoche shrugs. "Yes. Some of your favorite. As I said."

Blackquill shoots a glance over LaRoche's shoulder, to the empty hallway. "I suppose the whole point of this charade was making sure no one would notice you coming in?"

"Obviously enough."

"How predictable. Come inside," Blackquill says, and steps aside to let LaRoche in. He walks in, and puts the box down on the nearest table before turning to face Blackquill just as he shuts the door.

"You... don't seem surprised to see me," he finally murmurs.

Blackquill can't quite hold back a smirk. "Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me," he says. "I wouldn't simply accept whatever tale I was fed without seeing your body first. As none was shown, I knew there was a possibility you may still live. Information being strictly classified, I had nothing left to do but to wait. I knew that, if that was the case... then perhaps you'd be back, sooner or later."

LaRoche nods. "... I see. Still, I was under the impression they sent some ashes."

"Ashes from which no DNA could be recovered."

"That's what usually happens when a body is properly cremated."

"I'm aware of that. Very convenient, isn't it?"

A chuckle. "True enough. They were very careful to leave nothing behind that could prove I still lived. If anyone found out they never executed me, then there would be no hiding the truth."

Far from surprised by his words, Blackquill nods. "So it was them you worked for? The government? Was it them to get you out of prison the first time?"

LaRoche nods. "Yes. It was on their behalf that I began investigating YggraCorp along with the Yatagarasu. Did you suspect as much?"

"Athena could tell they lied when they talked about detaining and executing you."

"... I see," is the reply, and this time he can't quite meet Blackquill's eyes. "I... wold have shown myself sooner, if I could. But my ability to move was impaired for quite some time. Even after receiving my prosthetic limbs, I needed a long rehabilitation."

Blackquill nods, his gaze shifting to the left side of LaRoche's body. His left hand looks perfectly normal, covered in what he can only assume must be synthetic skin. His movements as a whole seems perfectly natural, too: no limp in his gait, no stiffness in the arm or in the fingers. "They must be quite advanced."

"They are. I may not need them for long, though. It depends on you, I guess," LaRoche says, and looks back at him. "If you or Cykes decide to call the police, I won't attempt to escape."

Somehow, the statement fails to surprise Blackquill. "That would be a death sentence. Have you returned to atone for your crimes?"

LaRoche clenches his jaw. "I have returned to keep my promise. Remember what I wrote you when I warned you about Outis?"

_Once this matter is over with, I'll turn myself over to you_.

Slowly, Blackquill nods. "I see. So is this what you're here for? To receive my judgment, and Athena's?" he asks, his own voice and words from three years ago echoing in the back of his mind.

_Throw yourself at my mercy! And don't you ever betray me again! Have you got that?!_

Rather than answering – for there is no point in it when they both know what the answer is – LaRoche lowers his gaze. "There is... something else. Something I need to give you to keep, whatever the fate you'll choose for me will-"

A sudden screeching noise causes him to trail off, and Blackquill only now realizes that Taka is perched on top of the door that leads to the kitchen, staring warily at LaRoche – who, on the other hand, gives a weak smile. "Hello, Taka. It's been a while," he says. Taka keeps eying him suspiciously, not recognizing him. And how could he? He looks and sounds nothing like Fulbright did.

"Hmph. No point in standing here, I suppose," he says, gesturing for him to follow him to the dining room. They sit at the table, and it doesn't escape Blackquill how stiff LaRoche is as he reaches into his jacket's pocket to pull out something – a bird made of crystal. "... Is that a peace offering of sorts?"

His question gets a chuckle out of LaRoche. "That was the sushi," he says. "No, this is... this belonged to Seymour Blaxton. I gave it to him as a gift a long time ago. It was still hidden in the house we shared after leaving the orphanage. The new owners never found it, because they never knew where to look."

Blackquill's gaze pauses on the object LaRoche is not putting on the table between them. "So you went all the way to Borginia and broke into someone's house to retrieve it?"

"Want to sue me?" the Phantom quips, but his grin dies down quickly. "It was hidden in there way before its new owners moved in. It belonged to Seymour, not to them. It's... it should be mine to keep. But I cannot own much, and whatever I own may be lost should I be killed on an assignment or... or should you call the police today. I... I'd rather have you keep it. Keep it safe."

Blackquill hums and reaches to take the object in his hand. "How could you possibly afford something of such craftsmanship?" he asks, holding up the crystal bird against the light. It's real crystal, no doubt about it: this is no cheap glass.

The Phantom shrugs. "I couldn't."

"You stole it."

"I plead the fifth."

"Hmph," Blackquill scoffs. "If anything, you had taste for a street urchin. Very well. I'll keep it safe, if that's your wish. But I expect you to take it back the day you're discharged from service; I expect you to make it to that day alive," he says, and the holds back an amused smirk when LaRoche stares at him in quiet incredulity. "If you have nothing to say, you'd do well to shut your mouth before Taka decides to nest in it."

He blinks a couple of time before he speaks. "Are you... not going to call the police?"

"Did you expect me to?"

LaRoche looks away. "I... don't know what I expected," he admits. "But what I did-"

"You have saved Athena's life. I cannot forget that. I will not, and neither will she. I'm certain of it. If you'll be caught, it won't be by our doing."

"You made me promise I'd die a man."

"And you were willing to, in the end. Now I want you to promise you'll live as one."

There is a moment of silence, and LaRoche draws in a deep breath before speaking again.

"I'll still be a spy, Blackquill. No matter for whom. I'll... I'll kill again, if my missions require it. I have killed already since last time we met. It's what I _do_, like a soldier at war. Only that I put on a mask and-"

"Take it off now."

Blackquill's order causes LaRoche to trail off and blink. "What...?"

"The mask. Take it off."

LaRoche stiffens. "What's beneath is... not my face. I don't-"

"Silence," Blackquill cuts him off. "If you wish to remain beneath my roof for a moment longer, you _shall_ tear that mask off your head. You've worn masks around me for far too long."

"My face is _gone_. I can no longer take that mask off," LaRoche says, an almost pleading note in his voice. Blackquill can imagine the reason why: now that his face has been erased for good, it must be easier to keep wearing masks over his new one – so that he can delude himself into thinking his own face is still there, somewhere.

But, comforting as it is, it's only a delusion. A delusion that would do him no good in the long run, Blackquill is sure of it. "Take it off," he says again, "or leave me."

"It's not my-"

"It _is_ your face now. Just a face and nothing more. It's not a face that shows who you are," Blackquill cuts him off, and makes an effort to soften his voice when the Phantom – no, not a phantom, he has a name and he won't let him forget it – winces. "LaRoche. I made you a promise once, remember? I promised I would never let you forget yourself again. And I keep my word, always. Take that mask _off_."

There is a moment of stillness and silence as LaRoche just stares at him. Then, slowly, he reaches up to grasp the mask and pull it off. The mask comes out, an empty heap of latex which LaRoche lets fall on the ground. But his head stays bowed, and his eyes stay shut.

Blackquill can't have _that_ now, can he? "Look at me. I have _seen_ that face. There is nothing for you to hide. Face me as-"

"As a man?" LaRoche says bitterly. His eyes open, but he still doesn't look up. "I promised you that I'd die as one once. I failed to. I left LaRoche behind to die and chose to live on as the Phantom. _Again_."

Blackquill can't argue with that: it felt – it still feels – all the world like a betrayal. But he will not, _cannot_ ignore what happened next. "But when you were forced to choose, you were willing to lay down your own life for Athena's," he says. "You would have died a man, and willingly, had they not been able to drag you back to the land of the living. You didn't expect to survive, did you? You expected a slow, painful death. You chose a such death so that Athena wouldn't have to suffer it."

LaRoche draws in a trembling breath. "What I expected matters not."

Blackquill stands and steps forward, towering over him. "What you expected matters everything. It shows the kind of person you are. I expect you to stand up and face me now because there is no reason left for you _not_ to."

For a few moment LaRoche says nothing; neither of them does. Then...

"... He. Heh. Hahahaha!" LaRoche laughs suddenly, bringing a hand up to wipe his eyes. His shoulders shake, and Blackquill can tell it's not all mirth. "You... you always had a way with words, Blackquill," he says, and finally – slowly – he stands, and lifts his head to look up at him.

There are tears rolling down his cheeks, but a smile is still tugging at his lips. But that's not where Blackquill's gaze lingers: it's his forehead. The scar, the one from the bullet that killed Robert LaRoche for a time, is still there – less noticeable, but _there_. And then there are his eyes. Their shape was changed by surgery, but the color has stayed the same: such pale blue that they look almost like dirty ice. He stares, and LaRoche holds his gaze for a moment before he lowers his eyes and attempts to lower his head as well – but Blackquill won't allow him to, and he reaches down to grasp his chin and force him to _look_ at him.

"Don't you _dare_ turn away from me again!" he snarls, causing LaRoche to recoil and look back up at him, eyes wide. There are a few moments of silence, a long stare, and Blackquill's hand moves to cup his cheek instead. "Don't," Blackquill finds himself repeating, not quite certain what is it he's asking for.

LaRoche blinks, causing some more tears to roll down his cheeks. "... You should have kept believing I was dead, before... before _Outis_. You were better off."

"I _mourned_ you, and so did Athena."

"But you moved on. You were doing better. I have... I have dragged you back to the start," LaRoche rasps. His right hand, the only _real_ hand he has left, reaches up to cover Blackquill's own. It feels warmer than his own, the scar Athena left on him nine years earlier – almost ten now – still visible on its back. "I failed to die and I failed to stay dead. I'll never cease being your phantom, it see-"

He doesn't get to end the sentence, for Blackquill has had enough and, with his face so close, tilting down his head to cover the little distance between them takes one moment and no amount of thought at all. It's barely more than a soft brush, lips on lips, but enough to make LaRoche fall silent. When Blackquill pulls back the look LaRoche is giving him – surprise and hope and yearning – is almost painful to look at.

"Hmph. You _dotard_. You're nothing more than human," Blackquill mutters. "Why won't you-"

And then it's his turn to trail off, because LaRoche lets go of his hand to grasp the collar of his shirt with both hands – real and prosthetic both – and yank his head down.

This time, it's more than just a brush: it's eager and desperate and full of need, as are those that follow. Pulling back would take a too great effort of will than either of them can muster at the moment, it seems, and plenty of blind fumbling is needed to get their clothes out of the way without breaking apart one moment more than necessary. This may very well be the last time they can have each other, after all; there is no telling when LaRoche's life may end, whether or not a mission may result with his death in the near future.

But there is a chance it _won't_ be, and that alone is enough to rid them of all the bitterness they endured over two years ago, in the cold prison cell that held them both for a time.

* * *

"Perhaps I should purchase a double bed in the future."

Blackquill's voice sounds still ragged when he speaks for the first time in a long while. LaRoche doesn't hold back a smirk, his own breathing still heavy against Blackquill's skin.

"Oh?"

"For the sake of practicality."

"Practicality," he repeats, the smirk widening. The bed certainly isn't as narrow as the prison cots they both know well, but it's narrow enough to force them to rest on each other. Not that he minds terribly.

"Of course. You have no objections, I presume."

LaRoche gives a breathless laugh and burrows his face in the crook of Blackquill's neck, absentmindedly noting that it's a good thing that Blackquill cut his hair; the mane he grew out in prison was quite bothersome last time. "Oh, no," he murmurs. "None at all."

* * *

"_Hhhnnn...!"_

Athena lets out a groan and blindly reaches for the nightstand when her cellphone rings, not even trying to disentangle herself from the sheets first. Last night was fun, especially after a few drinks convinced Apollo to actually use his Chords of Steel for karaoke – knowing him as she does, she can tell he's going to deny it ever happened for the rest of his life; good thing she took pictures – but now she's tired and she needs to sleep. Who is even calling this time? There should be a law against phone calls before midday on weekends, she thinks as she brings the phone to her ear. Especially lawyers who are still hangover from celebrating a trial win.

"Who is it?" she mutters, her voice still hoarse with sleep.

The chuckle from the other side of the line is a very familiar one. "And here I expected you to be up and running your daily mile," Simon says.

She groans, letting her head fall back on the pillow. "It's Saturday and it's _early_."

"It's nine thirty."

"It's _Saturday_. Hope you have a great reason to call."

"… As a matter of fact, I do," Simon speaks slowly, suddenly sounding a whole lot more serious, and that definitely gets her attention. She sits up, and her head doesn't even spin much.

"What is it?"

"Well, you could say I had an unexpected visitor last n- this morning. Someone you way want to meet."

That's enough for Athena's heart to jump in her throat, realization immediately sinking in. "Is it him? He's _there_?"

"Yes. In the kitchen, to be accurate, wolfing down what was supposed to be _my_ breakfast."

"I got you _sushi_!" another voice calls out in the background, and Athena's heart seems to miss a beat. He's really there and he's alive, as she thought – _hoped_ – through all those months. She throws the covers off herself and stands, nearly tripping over the cell phone charger's cable.

"I'll be there in twenty minutes tops!"

"You need not hurry, I don't think he's leaving until all food in my apartment is go—"

Whatever he says next is lost to Athena, because the next moment she ends the call and throws the cell phone on the bed before darting to the closet. Eighteen minutes later she's standing before Simon's apartment block, pressing on the buzzer, and she's upstairs ringing at his door exactly nineteen minutes after leaving her own apartment.

There are steps, and when the door opens there is a smirk curling up Simon's lips. "I must admit I through that of being here in twenty minutes was a hyperbole. If only you were so on time in court."

"Very funny," Athena wheezes, and she doesn't push past him only because Simon steps aside to let her in without prompting – and LaRoche is there, only a few steps away from her, wearing a Sushi World shirt she doesn't even waste time wondering about. His face is the same as last time she's seen him, but his hair has grown back and is a straw-like blond once again… and somehow he looks perfectly normal, like he never lost any limb to begin with – standing on two legs and with a left arm she could swear is made of flesh and blood.

"... Miss Cykes," he speaks, his gaze holding hers for only a moment before he turns it to the floor. "My apologies for taking so long to- _ow_!" he trails off with a yelp when Athena crosses the little distance between them and smacks him across the face. _Hard_. As hard as she can.

"That's for playing dead _again_," she shouts, giving him a shove. He's far taller and broader than her and he barely steps backwards, not even lifting his hands to shield himself. "I should wring your neck as I said I would, I really _should_…!" Athena trails off, the anger in her voice already fading – and Widget is as usual a dead giveaway of what she's really feeling.

**You're back!**

"Cykes," LaRoche starts, but she doesn't give him another moment to speak before throwing her arms around him and holding tight. He stiffens, and she can hear his surprise plain as day.

"I knew you couldn't be dead. I _knew_ it," she says, and pulls back with a smile widening on her face. "What took you so long to show up?"

LaRoche blinks down at her, confusion still overriding most other emotions… but there is something else Athena feels for a brief moment, something very close to happiness. "There was some… physical therapy to get through," he finally says, lifting his left arm to clench and unclench his left hand. It looks absolutely normal, like it's made of flesh and blood – which she knows simply cannot be. "I was able to walk and grasp objects quickly enough, but regaining all my previous abilities took longer."

Athena bites her lower lip. "That can't have been easy."

"I managed. I have to admit that robotic limbs come with a few perks."

"What kind of—" she starts, only to trail off when LaRoche holds out the arm and a grappling hook shoots out of the base of the wrist, snatching the feather right out of Simon's mouth and causing him to rear back.

"Gah!"

LaRoche gives a somewhat impish grin that Athena can't recall seeing on him before, and despite the new face she can tell, for a moment, what young Robb must have looked like once. When he turns back to her, the grin is still lingering. "It does everything the watch did."

"Except telling the time."

"Well, actually—"

"Unless you wish to find yourself with _another_ of those miraculous robotic limbs, you shall refrain from using any of its tricks on me again," Simon says with a scowl. "Whatever you may aim at me _shall_ be met with my blade next time."

Athena makes a face. "Spoilsport," she says, and turns back to LaRoche. "So… does all of this mean that you were with the government? Is that why they never meant to execute you?"

That causes LaRoche's grin to fade. "Yes. It was on the government's behalf that I investigated YggdraCorp and its dealings. I'm certain they planned on ending me after I was exposed, so that I wouldn't reveal whom I worked for. The Yatagarasu convinced them not to, apparently. She was able to convince them that I could still be a valuable asset."

"So… you're _still_ with them, right?"

He glances away. "They didn't invest their resources on me to let me go in an early retirement, I'm afraid. They own me in that sense. As long as they need me as a spy, I'll be one. I've… not truly _been_ anything else in a long time, after all. Which means I may kill more people, if my mission calls for it."

His words are like a cold shower, in a way, but nothing too unexpected. It's a harsh truth, but it _is_ the truth – the very nature of LaRoche's work means he might have to kill people. Dangerous people like those from YggdraCorp, or Outis... or people like her mother. The fact he's now working for the government rather than for his old organization won't necessarily make some deaths justifiable. The concept of a spy with license to kill isn't quite as great in reality as movies make it sound.

Her smile has completely faded now, and LaRoche clearly notices. He lowers his head.

"I can promise you I'd never again kill solely to protect my own identity, as I did with your mother, Terran and Fulbright. I can promise that I'll try to avoid any unnecessary death I can – but that's all. I can't even promise those I kill will have deserved it – I may be used to protect this country's safety or to damage some other. Whether or not someone's death is justified changes depending on who wishes them gone. It's like being in a war, I suppose," he adds, and gives a faint smile. "You're told to fight, and that's it. That's what you _do_. Whether those on the other side deserve death is not relevant. You do what you're supposed to do – you're not expected to give mercy. Nor you can expect to _receive_ it."

Athena bites her lower lip. "And... and you can't get out of this in any way?" she asks, her throat dry.

LaRoche looks at her – _forces_ himself to look at her, she can tell – and shakes his head. "Yes. I can. My other choice is death. Which is the reason why I'm here."

Athena isn't sure she likes where this is going. "You're… not going to turn yourself in, right?"

"… It is not my wish, no. I'm not quite tired of living yet, to be honest. But neither was anyone I murdered. Neither was Detective Fulbright, or Clay Terran, or your mother. Neither were the people I killed long before them."

That much is true, Athena thinks, a twinge of pain in her chest, and it can't be denied. The Phantom was a multiple murderer, and the sentence for such crimes is death. Still, Athena can't find it in herself to accept it – not while knowing what caused LaRoche to lose his emotions and empathy in the first place, not after watching him fighting step by step to regain them along with a sense of self, not after feeling his agony in doing so… and not after watching him laying down his life to save _hers_. He's become _someone_, and that someone is much more than the phantom who killed her mother could ever hope to be.

_And none of them will be back if he dies._

She opens her mouth to speak, but she doesn't even know where to start – and Simon speaks up first. "He is willing to pay the ultimate price for his crimes if you wish so," he says. "He's leaving the choice to us. The fact I did not call the police should say enough about what my choice is. But I'll heed your word on this. It's your decision."

For a few moments, Athena is too stunned to talk. LaRoche is there to ask _her_ whether or not she wants him to turn himself in, he's putting his life in her hands after nearly losing it to _save_ her. It's completely unexpected, and certainly not something she's used to – she's a defense attorney, not a judge! She can't just pass a sentence, or… well, technically the sentence was passed _already_, and he was guilty of several murders. She isn't the only one who lost someone to the Phantom, and it shouldn't be up to _her_ to decide. She almost says as much… but pauses when she thinks of Apollo, of Aura, of the whole police department. None of them would spare him, she's sure… but none of them owes him their life, none of them knows he's not dead already. As far as they're concerned, the Phantom is history.

"… I can't tell you to turn yourself in. I won't. They'd execute you in no time."

"That, or the government would end me first. But most would say I deserve it."

"Most don't owe you their life."

"Which I jeopardized in the first place."

"Don't start this again," Athena groans, reaching up to rub her temples. "Just… _don't_. Don't get yourself killed. _Please_."

LaRoche looks back at her before looking away. "… Thank you. For what it's worth, I'll try all I can to avoid unnecessary deaths. I'll let myself be exposed before I murder anyone for the same reasons why I killed your mother."

Athena manages to smile. "You had better not be exposed at all! I... you'll be back at some point, won't you?"

"I assure you he will," Simon speaks from behind her, and there is the reassuring weight of his hand on her shoulder. He looks straight at LaRoche, whose lips curl briefly in a smile. "We have already discussed as much. He won't dare cross the Styx until he has my permission to."

"Oh, of course. It would be truly effective should I find myself with a gun to my head. Please don't shoot, Prosecutor Blackquill will kill me if I die."

"Hmph. I'd find a way to follow you and make you regret leaving this world. Don't doubt that."

"... I don't. But you'd probably have to get in line," LaRoche says, and his smile turns into something more melancholic for a moment; Simon doesn't ask, and neither does Athena.

"So... how long are you going to stay?"

"Not for long, I'm afraid. My partner was able to rig the signal of the microchip they put under my skin, but it can only work for limited time. The government cannot know I am here. I'll have to leave in the morning."

Athena doesn't waste time to wonder why he'd stay overnight rather than simply leave in the evening – the brief slip Simon had at the phone earlier is enough of an answer.

_Well, you could say I had an unexpected visitor last n- this morning_.

_This morning, sure_.

"Another assignment?" she asks instead.

LaRoche nods. "Yes. But I'm afraid I can't speak of it."

She bites her lower lip. "Is it going to be dangerous?"

"No more dangerous than others I've taken on. I'll be fine. I had better be," LaRoche adds, briefly glancing at Blackquill, who scoffs. "And, Cykes?"

"Yeah?"

"... We still disagree on whether or not I deserve your forgiveness. I don't believe I do. But I intend to, somehow."

Athena has to hold back a sigh. Really, what _else_ does he think he can do that tops saving her life at the cost of agonizing pain, a couple of limbs and very nearly his life? "Can't think of much else you could do to. It's _fine_. You've got nothing left to prove. Just… don't be a stranger, okay?"

LaRoche stares at her for a few moments, saying nothing – but he doesn't even try to mute his heart as she knows he could do, and the mixture of sadness and happiness Athena can hear speaks loud enough. "I'll try to visit again when I get a chance," he finally says.

Athena knows it's all he can promise and it may not be much – but, as she leaves Simon's apartment some time later, feeling oddly lighter and with a smile on her face, she knows it is _enough_.

* * *

"... Simon?

LaRoche's voice causes Blackquill to open his eyes, gaze meeting nothing but the darkness in the room. Hearing his first name spoken with LaRoche's voice feels unfamiliar and somewhat alien, far more than the warm weight of his body. "What is it?" he asks, a hand reaching to tangle in LaRoche's hair.

"Do you remember," he speaks, his head still resting on Blackquill's chest as he listen to his heartbeat, "back when… when I was Fulbright and you first spoke to me about the phantom you were still chasing?"

He does, of course. He remembers the conversation well, the first time he spoke to anyone but the Chief Prosecutor about the specter that haunted his nights. He had believed Fulbright to be a fool, but a well intentioned one and one of the very people left to believe he was not a monster. The memory is bitter now that he knows how much of a lie that was.

Still, Blackquill's hand remains tangled in LaRoche's hair. "I do. What of it?"

LaRoche stays silent for a few moments, hesitating, before he speaks again. "… After that talk, I was satisfied. I believed it was because you were beginning to trust Fulbright enough, because I was one step closer to the psych profile."

Blackquill nods, his hand on LaRoche's head stiffening for a moment. That accursed profile, he thinks – the only tangible proof of the Phantom's existence, the only thing he had left of his mentor for seven long years, the reason why he lost her in the first place. He held onto it for all the years he had been in prison, drawing courage from its mere existence even as he cursed himself for asking Metis Cykes to write it, for involving her in something bigger than them both.

"… And what was the true reason?" Blackquill asks.

LaRoche doesn't lift his head from his chest, but his right hand – his real hand – reaches up for his face, cupping his cheek. His thumb brushes over Blackquill's cheekbone, as it did when LaRoche lay in his arms on the brink of death eight months ago. It seems almost impossible to think such a thing could have happened; the new bullet scars on his pale skin are the only visible proof, scars he made sure to kiss while LaRoche shivered beneath him. His fake limbs are entirely covered in synthetic skin and are as warm and any normal limb, hiding the mutilations he suffered.

For a moment Blackquill thinks Aura herself would be proud of such a miracle of technology, but he's quick to chase the thought away. Thinking of his sister, who's spending her last few months in prison right now, in LaRoche's presence... it seems unbearably disrespectful to her. He knows she'd want LaRoche's head if she knew he still lived, and Blackquill's own if she knew he was letting him go. Blackquill couldn't blame her, and somewhere in his guts there is a twinge of guilt.

Unaware of his thoughts, LaRoche replies to his question in a quiet tone. "I couldn't tell, then. But now I know. It was because of how you named me."

"Phantom?"

"Yes. It was… the closest thing to a name I could recall ever having. Few were even aware of my existence; that's… how it works, when you're in my line of work. But you knew I existed, and you _named_ me. You can't name nothingness, can you? I was more real to your than I had ever been to anyone, as far as I could recall then," he says, and pauses. He gives a weak chuckle. "That must sound utterly pathetic."

"It does. But it's understandable."

"You have yet to hear the most pitiful part."

Blackquill scoffs. "Talk, then. I'm far too tired to bother forcing words out of you," he says, briefly stroking LaRoche's hair as he speaks. LaRoche tilts his head, leaning in the touch – and then he speaks again, and Blackquill goes still. The voice that's now leaving LaRoche is his own.

"_Tch_. Cease your sniveling, Fool Bright. I shall settle in Hell soon enough. All I ask of your precious _justice_, if there is any, is that I may take my phantom down with me in flames."

There are a few moments of silence, as Blackquill doesn't know what to say. He's rarely speechless, but this is one of those occasions. He remembers telling Fulbright as much, yes, but he did not remember the exact words as LaRoche apparently does. It's ludicrous to think he may have such a miraculous memory that he can remember precisely each word spoken years ago.

Something about that phrase must have made it stick out… and Blackquill is rather sure he can tell what it is. "My phantom," he says quietly. LaRoche nods and finally raises his head to meet Blackquill's gaze. The dim light coming from the window is barely enough to let him see LaRoche's eyes looking down at him.

"Yes," he murmurs. "_Your_ phantom. I couldn't tell how much that meant, then. I couldn't tell why I lay awake at night thinking back of your words. It only made sense later. I was no one – I was _nothing_ – but then again you can't own nothingness. So I had to be _someone_. I was your phantom. _Yours_. I didn't just exist to you – I was someone you couldn't leave this world without."

There is a moment of stillness and silence as LaRoche's words fade, then Blackquill scoffs and lifts himself to press his mouth on LaRoche's. The other man's hands grasp his shoulders, and Blackquill reaches around his waist to pull him down with him.

"You are no phantom," he breathes, "but you _are_ mine."

The sound that leaves LaRoche is unlike anything else Blackquill has ever heard. For a time they say nothing else and simply move together in the dark, cries muffled by the meeting of their lips.

* * *

This goodbye is, as far as Blackquill is concerned, far more awkward than the previous one.

Back then he had thought it would be a farewell, for LaRoche was headed for the gallows. It had been difficult and painful, but given the circumstances he had known it had to happen… and that it would be final.

But now it is different, of course. LaRoche is not headed to his death, or at least not to certain death, and there is a likelihood he'll be back – although not the certainty. _When_ he may be back is something neither of them knows at the moment; the future is nothing but a question mark.

If LaRoche is killed on an assignment, how would Blackquill even know? He _wouldn't_. He would be left waiting uselessly for a sign, _any_ sign, that LaRoche may still live – and for how long would he be able to hold on to the hope he has not succumbed to the grim reaper?

The thought is what finally prompts Blackquill to speak after several moments of awkward silence before his apartment's front door. "Don't you _dare_ die out there."

LaRoche smiles wistfully. "I'm getting that a lot lately," he says. "I'll do everything I can to… be back, when I get a chance. If you get a blank postcard from time to time, well. You'll know I'm still around, right?"

Blackquill nods. That sounds like a reasonable compromise. "Hmph. I suppose it will be enough. It goes without saying that you're expected to make it alive to the day you're discharged from service. I won't clutter my apartment with your belongings one day more than necessary," he says.

LaRoche's eyes move for a moment on the crystal bird still sitting on the living room's table. It's the only thing he has left of Seymour Blaxton, and he has chosen to entrust it to him. Regardless what he may say about it, it's not something Blackquill takes lightly.

"Understood," LaRoche says, and tilts up his head to kiss him. Blackquill is more than willing to reciprocate.

When LaRoche pulls back he seems about to speak again, but in the end he says nothing: he only nods at Blackquill, who nods back, and turns to walk through the door, pulling the cap's visor down to conceal his face. That's it, Blackquill muses as he watches walk down the hallway and around the corner, that's their goodbye – a brief kiss and a wordless nod, with the promise of meeting again. But it's fine; it's how it's bound to work, apparently.

There are thousands of words hanging unspoken between them, thousands of words Blackquill doubts either of them will ever say aloud. But, as he shuts the door and turns to glance at the crystal object sitting on the table, LaRoche's taste lingering in his mouth, he knows that he doesn't need to hear them.

* * *

_A/N: Aaaaand yeah. This is the end. Hard to believe it, huh? It is for me, at least. __Anyway, it's been a lot of fun and I hope you enjoyed both this fic and TttP even half as much as I enjoyed writing them.  
Time for thanks now, isn't it?_

_Thank you so much to everyone who read/reviewed/liked/kudo-ed/reblogged this, on whatever site you've been reading it.  
Thank you to everyone who actually to time to draw art for this series, too - it was always an amazing surprise and never failed to make my day. If you haven't seen the art, there's a link to it on my profile!  
Thank you to Keyanna for proofreading the past several chapters of TO, to yrina918 for fixing ALL of TttP and about half of TO (I'll get uploading the fixed chapters soon, sorry it took me so long!) and to VampireNaomi for proofreading the epilogue - and generally for spurring me on with this.  
_Last but not least: Keysmash Anon, hope you don't mind me sorta-kinda dedicating the fic to you. I hope things will get better for you. Don't hesitate to drop me a line if you need anything. Hang in there, okay?_  
_

_Generally, thank you to everyone who's been sticking around until now. As I said, it was an amazing ride. All the best, hope you have amazing holidays ahead!_


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